Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 6)

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  “Yes. Or, Rachel let the person in the house, which would suggest that she’d trusted the person.”

  “Unless, Rachel opened the door to find a gun or a knife staring her in her face. The intruder could’ve forced his way in.”

  “Yet there was no apparent sign of a struggle,” I said, showing him pictures of the crime scene. “I mean, whoever killed Rachel had to be a pro or at least very clever. He, or she for that matter, didn’t leave any fingerprints, hair, DNA, nothing. My guess is, whoever did this had taken his or her sweet time to plan the attack and, unless there were two people involved, the killer must’ve been strong enough to drag her body out of the house and into a vehicle. A vehicle that nobody saw.”

  Carter sighed heavily and took another sip of coffee. “Unless there’s a witness who’s afraid to come forward.”

  I finished my English muffin and paid the bill. “Let’s head over to Andrew’s house now and take a look around.”

  Carter plugged the address of 237 White Chapel Street into his GPS and, within ten minutes, we arrived on a quiet residential neighborhood that appeared to be upper middle-class. Andrew’s home was modest yet well maintained: a two story colonial with a two-car attached garage. We parked in the driveway and got out.

  We casually made our way around the house and found the spare key, right where Andrew said it would be.

  My stomach clenched as we walked into the kitchen and flipped on the lights.

  “I guess no-one has gotten around to turning off the electricity,” Carter noted as he strolled into the living room. “Nice place, though.”

  The house was appointed with quality appliances and furniture, with a definite feminine touch. The walls were covered in pastel colors of butternut and peach, more befitting a tropical location than a New England town. I imagined that Andrew had let Rachel decorate the place to her desire.

  In the living area, I was immediately drawn to the framed photos lining the fireplace mantel. One of the photos showed Andrew and Rachel, cheek to cheek, posing for a selfie on a beach. Another picture showed an older couple in their sixties that could’ve been Andrew’s parents or Rachel’s. Another photo showed two young kids in their preteen years. Looked like a young Rachel with another boy about her age.

  “This must be Rachel’s brother Michael,” I said, showing him the photo.

  “The homeless guy?”

  “Yeah. According to the police report, the homicide detective was able to track him down to deliver the news about Rachel. Apparently, Michael had a negative reaction and attacked the detective, gave him a black eye.”

  Carter winced. “Yeah. That happens sometimes. It sucks being the messenger.”

  I meandered to the stairway and stopped, hand on the railing. “The bedrooms are up here.”

  Carter followed me up the stairs. As we rounded the corner to the bedroom, I soon realized that there was nothing to worry about. There was no bloody scene here. In fact, it smelled of fresh paint. The carpeting looked new. The bed was gone. “I wonder if the bank is planning to foreclose on the place now that Andrew can’t make his mortgage payments.”

  “Probably, but it won’t happen for a while,” he said, scanning the room. “Did Rachel and Andrew own this home together?”

  “No. It’s only in Andrew’s name. He bought it in 2010. Rachel had moved in about three years ago.”

  Carter inspected the closets. “All these clothes will probably end up at Good Will. What a shame.”

  I felt a little guilty for going through her wardrobe, but I couldn’t resist. She had excellent taste. Judging by the brands, very expensive taste, too. I suppose as a doctor, she could afford nice things.”

  We continued out to the garage, where a white colored Prius was parked inside. Unlocked, I searched the glove compartment for a registration. “This was Rachel’s. I wonder where Andrew’s car is.”

  “Probably still in the evidence storage facility,” he said. “Which is where it will remain unless a family member makes claims to it. But since Andrew is in the jail and he has no other family...” He stopped when he realized what he’d said. “Well, I guess you and Sammy are his family now.”

  I continued to search through Rachel’s car. The thing was spotless. “I suppose the cops have already gone through here, looking for clues.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to look twice.”

  “There’s nothing in here anyway,” I said, closing up the car.

  Just then, we heard a loud, agitated voice.

  “Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing in here?”

  Carter and I both turned our heads and saw the angry face of a man in the doorway.

  “Good morning,” I said, moving toward him in a friendly manner. “My brother owns this house.”

  The man had to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a business suit straight out of Brooks Brothers. His blonde hair was slicked back with gel, giving it a yellow helmet effect.

  “Andrew was an only child.” He reached for his cell phone in his trouser pocket. “I’m calling the police right now to report trespassers.”

  “Hold on,” Carter said, showing him his palms. “Are you Neal Gammond, the next door neighbor?”

  He slowly lowered his phone. “Yes, that’s me. How’d you know?”

  “We’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Carter said. “Do you have a minute?”

  He took a step back and narrowed his eyes. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  Carter explained that we were private investigators, working with Andrew’s defense team.

  “He’s a murderer,” Neal said with disgust. “Why would you want to help him?”

  “Why don’t we go inside and sit down to talk.” Carter pointed to the door that led into the house.

  Neal shook his head. “I’m gonna be late for work. Besides, I have nothing more to say.”

  “Did you ever witness Andrew being abusive to Rachel?” I asked. “Did you see it with your own eyes?”

  He blinked at me as if confused. “Sure, I did. Several times. It was horrible. Andrew is not a nice man.”

  Neal kept fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. His voice was whiny, the high-pitched tone grating to my ears. In fact, he reminded me of a well-dressed weasel with coiffed hair. “If Andrew was abusive,” I said. “Then why didn’t Rachel just move out? She could afford to have her own place. I mean, she was a doctor wasn’t she?”

  He rolled his eyes theatrically. “Well, I don’t know why she stayed. Maybe he threatened her.”

  “Andrew doesn’t have a single black mark on his record,” I said. “He’s never been arrested. His friends say he’s a great guy. Tell me, why do you hate him so much?”

  Neal sniffed scornfully as he turned on his heel to leave. “I don’t have time for this.”

  We heard his loafers clicking down the walkway at a fast pace. Moments later, we heard a car door slam.

  “He’s an awkward little man, isn’t he?” Carter said, motioning for me to follow him outside, just in time to see Neal drive away in a brown Ford Taurus.

  “I don’t trust him,” I said, looking towards the house to the right. “I wonder if he happens to live alone.”

  “I can sure find out.” Carter retrieved his cell phone and punched in some numbers. Probably the address of Neal’s house. Within five minutes he had an answer. “Yup. Neal Gammond lives alone. I’ll do a background check on him and see what turns up.”

  “I can’t wait to find out what this guy does for work.”

  Back inside the house, I went into the basement and found some boxes. Old photo albums and trinkets of his childhood. I couldn’t resist wondering what Andrew looked like in various stages of growing up. According to the vast amount of pictures, his adoptive parents adored and cherished him, which warmed my heart. There were several prom pictures that made me laugh. He was as awkward and pimply in those early teenaged years - and the long shaggy hair that was popular in the early eighties, yikes. Not a g
ood look. Still, those blue eyes sparkled with laughter.

  When Carter joined me ten minutes later, he was chuckling to himself. “Go ahead and try to guess what Neal does for a living.”

  “I don’t know. Does he sell insurance?”

  “Nope. He’s a limo driver for Bayside Limousine Services. Been working there for three and a half years.”

  “With his snarky attitude, I can’t imagine he makes good tips.”

  Carter laughed. “Yeah, well, maybe he can turn on the charm when he needs to.”

  “What else can you tell me about Neal?”

  Carter shrugged. “He doesn’t have a record if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s never been married, either.”

  “Andrew mentioned he was gay.”

  “Well, that isn’t something that shows up in a background check, unless he was arrested for giving a hand job in public.”

  “Thanks for that visual, by the way.” I set aside Andrew’s photo album and got to my feet. “I’m not really sure what I’m looking for, but I doubt I’ll find Rachel’s killer in here.”

  “Ah,” Carter said, tapping his finger on his phone. “I think I’ve figured out why Neal was so protective of Rachel. His parents got divorced when he was pretty young. Apparently, his father abused his mother repeatedly until she ended up in the hospital. Almost died.”

  “Wow. I suppose when Neal heard Andrew and Rachel fighting, it triggered a negative memory from his childhood, when he couldn’t protect him mom from his brute of a father. Guilt has a way of manifesting itself later in life.”

  Carter gave me the look. “You sound like a therapist.”

  “Still. Neal had no right to assume Andrew was hurting Rachel.”

  We locked up Andrew’s house, placed the spare key under the rock, and then returned to the car.

  “What next?” Carter asked.

  “Let’s call Roger Shefke. According to Andrew, he was Rachel’s friend and business associate. I’d like to ask him a few questions about the book she was writing.”

  Chapter 7

  Roger Shefke agreed to meet with us right away. He even invited us to his home located on the West end of Hartford.

  We pulled up in front of his house around 12:30 and I was impressed by the property. The main house was a three-story Victorian hodgepodge with a massive five-bay garage.

  “Holy smokes,” I said. “This guy must have a fleet of cars to warrant that.”

  “I did a little background on this Shefke guy. He was a partner of Harrison Publishing back in the eighties and nineties and made a shitload of dough before the company went under a few years ago. They had lost a few of their best-selling authors to other publishing houses and, with the e-book revolution and indie authors publishing their own books, Harrison Publishing became crippled. Shefke had seen the writing on the wall, and he sold his stock in the company. Walked away with over five million bucks. Now, he owns a small company and works out of his home office just for fun, only taking on small projects that interest him. However, I couldn’t find anything online about the project he was working on with Rachel.”

  “Hopefully, he’ll be willing to tell us,” I said.

  After we rang the doorbell, an attractive woman in her mid-forties invited us inside the foyer, which smelled of fresh cut flowers. Sure enough, perched in an exquisite crystal vase, was a bouquet of roses.

  “You must be the private detectives,” she said offering her hand to me first and then Carter. “My husband is expecting you.”

  “I’m Sarah, and this is Carter. You have a lovely home, by the way.”

  “Thank you. My name is Cynthia, but please call me Cindy. Follow me and I’ll take you to see Roger.”

  Cindy reminded me of a hot librarian or teacher. She wore dark-rimmed glasses, and her smooth, blonde hair was swooped back into a French twist. The white lace blouse was buttoned all the way up her neck, and the navy wool skirt went a few inches below her knees.

  She made small talk about the weather until we arrived at a large wooden door. She knocked and, a moment later, the door opened. The first thing that came to mind when I laid eyes on Roger Shefke was, what is Woody Allen doing here? The short Jewish guy with facial hair could have been his twin brother.

  Roger must have noticed the look on my face and laughed. “Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably expecting me to start pacing the room while muttering to myself, right?”

  I liked this guy immediately because he was able to poke fun at himself. I held out my hand. “Mr. Shefke, it’s really nice to meet you. I’m Sarah Woods. This is Carter Peterson.”

  “Please, call me Roger. I insist.” After we all shook hands, Cindy offered to fetch us some coffee and excused herself.

  The office was huge, at least 300 square feet with a formal lounge area where he invited us to sit. “So, on the phone you mentioned something about exonerating Andrew. I’m glad to know he’s not giving up.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “So is it safe to assume that you think Andrew is innocent?”

  Without a second’s hesitation, he said, “Of course he’s innocent. He adored Rachel and he’d never hurt her. His attorney didn’t do him any favors if you ask me. The case never should’ve gone to trial to begin with. ”

  “We agree,” Carter said. “But in order for a judge to grant him an appeal, we need evidence to prove that someone else had a motive to kill Rachel. Can we start by asking you a few questions about your personal and professional relationship with her?”

  “Of course,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “What would you like to know?”

  I held up my cell phone. “I’d like to record the conversation if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” he said with a gracious wave of his hand.

  “Great. Let’s start with how you and Rachel met.”

  “We met about a year ago when she came to me with her project. I thought she was a bright woman with a big heart, and I was very much interested in her research. I guess you could say we hit it off from the start.”

  “Had you ever met Spealman and Linzer, the other two psychiatrists helping her with the research?” I asked.

  “Yes. Actually, there were four doctors involved in the project at the beginning. The other guy’s name is Boyle. Dr. Barry Boyle, if I remember correctly. Anyway, he bowed out of the program a few months after things really got rolling. Not sure why but, to answer your question, yes, I had met the other two.”

  “So, you must also know that Dr. Spealman and Dr. Linzer both died shortly before Rachel did.”

  “Yes. One right after the other, as a matter of fact. Rachel had a hard time with that. She’d had immense respect for them and, of course, had invested greatly in their cooperative research. Rachel almost gave up on the project, but I encouraged her to keep at it.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked. “Will the book still get published?”

  Shefke paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “You see, I’m sort of in a holding pattern. With Rachel and her colleagues gone, the research isn’t complete and, therefore, my hands are tied. I know how valuable this information is but unless I’m able to somehow finish what she started...” His expression changed slightly. “You think Rachel’s research had something to do with her murder?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “What can you tell me about this fourth doctor, Barry Boyle?”

  “Not much. I met him a few times early on but, like I said, he left the group after only a few months. If I remember correctly, they had to kick him out of the group for poor performance. He wasn’t contributing as much as the others.”

  “Has he been in touch with you?” Carter asked. “Since Rachel’s death?”

  “No, but I called him about a week or so ago. I left a message and asked if he’d be willing to meet with me. I figured he might be interested in finishing the research so we could get this book published. Perhaps I should add that I’m not interested in doing this for
the money. I have enough of that. I just believe in the work and want to see Rachel’s ideas being incorporated into the medical field.”

  “Where is Dr. Boyle’s practice located?” I asked.

  “He’s got an office in town. I’m sure I have his address in my contact list if you need it.”

  “We’ll find it, but thanks,” Carter said. “So, who else besides you has the files on Rachel’s research?”

  Shefke pursed his lips as if confounded. “To be honest, I don’t know. You might want to ask Rachel’s assistant.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Brianna Lepage. She’s a med student and was working as an unpaid intern for Rachel. I’m sorry I don’t have any information about her other than that. I’d only met her on one occasion.”

  “What about Rachel’s practice?” I asked. “Has anyone else stepped in to care for her patients?”

  “Not sure about that,” Shefke said. “I drove by her office in town and her sign was gone. The landlord probably had her things removed and is trying to rent out the space.”

  I made a mental note to find out exactly how many psychiatrists actually practiced in this town. “Do you think it’s possible that Rachel and her two colleagues were killed because of the research they were about to publish?”

  That got his full attention. “The other doctors weren’t murdered like Rachel was.”

  “True. One had a heart attack, and the other was in a fatal car accident, but you can’t tell me the timing of their deaths isn’t alarming.”

  He donned a serious expression, head tilted slightly. “It’s quite a theory. While I’m intrigued by it, what proof do you have that they’re connected, other than the research they were about to publish, of course.”

  “Nothing yet. Right now, I’m wondering who had the most to gain by eliminating these three doctors.”

  Shefke paused for a moment and then his eyes lit up. He nodded as if he understood completely. “Ah. You think it’s me. You think I plan to publish the book and keep the profit all for myself. I guess I can’t blame you, there. It makes perfect sense.”