by Mary Daheim
As I suspected, Warren was easily led, especially by a woman. Now that I wasn't concentrating on hiding in the shrubbery, I could feel the dew in the grass. A breeze was blowing down from Tonga Ridge, soft and benign. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that some of the neighbors had gathered at the foot of the driveway. I pretended not to see them; that was Milo's department.
“There's not much to tell,” Warren began, finally squaring his shoulders. “Alexis had raised him on her own until she and I got married. He wanted a father, but he resented a stepfather.” Warren gave me a sheepish look. “It sounds dumb, but that's the way it was.”
“No,” I said. “I understand. Murray wanted his real father. He felt rejected. A substitute couldn't cure that.”
“Right.” Warren nodded with a semblance of enthusiasm. “You got it. You understand people real well, Emma.”
“Sometimes.” What I understood was how I knew Adam would have felt if I had married someone other than Tom. “So you and Murray never got along. I suppose that caused problems with Alexis.”
“Boy, did it! It got worse and worse. Finally it came down to him or me. Alexis had to choose. Murray was a teenager by then, and he was getting into all kinds of trouble. She expected me to handle him the way she always had—by standing up for him, making excuses, even giving him alibis. I'd gone along with her to keep the peace, but as Murray got older and into more serious stuff, I couldn't do it anymore. That's when we split up. Right after that, before the divorce was final, Alexis found out she had leukemia. That damned Murray was old enough to read stuff in the papers and magazines. He found out that sometimes diseases are caused or at least aggravated by stress. Naturally he blamed me. Still, I tried to reconcile with Alexis after she got sick. But she was one of those people who acts like a wounded animal—they just want to go off in a cave and die. Which is what happened a year or so later. By that time Murray was living with her brother and his wife in Kirkland.”
Ed had told me about the insurance policy Warren had inherited, and the supposed provision for Murray. “Did you try to make contact with the relatives?”
“Once. They hung up on me. I had to get on with my life.” Warren had lowered his head, eyes focused on the soft, wet new grass.
The ambulance attendants were wheeling the stretcher into their vehicle. I could see Milo standing by the open rear doors, gesturing and talking. Appropriately enough, Vida had gone down the drive and was relaying information to the curious neighbors.
Warren also noticed what was happening in front of the house. “We can go back in now, can't we?” He seemed eager.
“Well …” I hesitated. “It is a crime scene. Let's wait to see what Milo does.”
“Shit,” Warren murmured. “Now I can't even get a drink because of that creep.”
“You'll survive without it,” I said, recalling Francine's fear that her ex-husband might have slipped into alcoholism under Ursula's influence. “When did you run into Murray again?” I asked, taking his arm and leading him toward the rear of the house.
“In June, just before we moved to Alpine. We attended a silver wedding anniversary reception for some of Ursula's friends. Murray was working for the local weekly and taking pictures.”
“So he was a journalist,” I said, more to myself than to Warren. “Did he know Ursula?”
Warren shook his head. “No, but he recognized me right away. He was real nice, which should have made me suspicious. He asked a bunch of questions, especially when he found out I was getting married again. But I didn't hear from him until he showed up tonight.”
The garden at the back of the house sloped sharply upward into a rockery with a small waterfall. There was a fish pond and a gazebo, as well as a large patio furnished with an umbrella-covered table, a barbecue, and a hot tub. I tried to envision the Buzzy O'Toole menage dining in alfresco elegance, and failed.
I let out a sorry little sigh. “It wasn't enough to get his revenge. He had to make sure you understood. That everybody understood,” I added, thinking how Murray had wanted me to write about Warren's humiliation.
But I was a step ahead of my companion. “What?” Warren stumbled over one of the flagstones in the patio. “You don't mean … ? Oh, no!”
Though I couldn't tell in the darkness, I was sure that the color had drained from Warren's face. “It was no accident,” I said grimly. “I don't see how it could have been. To get his revenge, Murray had to make sure that Ursula died. He couldn't take chances, not when she planned to change her will and her insurance policy in the coming week.”
“But …” Warren was still having trouble finding words. “How could he know?”
The ambulance siren sounded again, denoting its departure. “I doubt that he did at first. He came to Alpine looking for an opportunity. He was a reporter, remember. Believe me, Warren, it's not hard to ferret out information when you're a member of the press.”
“Brendan Shaw wouldn't tell tales out of school,” Warren protested. “Neither would Marisa Foxx. Her, especially. I don't believe it.”
“All Murray needed to know was that Ursula had appointments with Brendan and Marisa. He could guess why. I went to see Brendan myself the same day that Ursula did. It was right after that when I first realized I had an intruder. Murray may have thought I'd found out something about Ursula that day. Or maybe he was doing some research on my reporter, Carla Steinmetz, to buoy up his alibi for being in town. He needed as much background as he could get beyond the feature on Ursula in The Advocate. Murray was pretending to be a hotshot TV reporter, remember. But he also broke into this house the evening that Ursula died.” I gestured in the direction of the bedroom window. “He may have found her personal papers. I suspect he came back later, introduced himself as someone she'd met at her friends' anniversary reception, had a drink or two, and offered to take her for a spin in his Miata. They were seen driving by Jake and Betsy's. Betsy insisted it was you, but if you think about it, there's a passing resemblance between you and Murray. You're both dark and about the same size. Furthermore, Betsy admits she can't tell one car from another. Your Z3 and Murray's Miata are both red sports cars. That's close enough for Betsy OToole. She was familiar with your Z3, but she'd never seen the Miata before. Naturally she assumed it was you.”
“Jesus!” Warren wiped his brow. “Murray killed Ursula! I can't believe it!”
I realized that Warren hadn't heard much of what I'd said. It didn't matter. We had now circled the garden and were back at the head of the driveway. The neighbors had dispersed, but Vida and Milo were standing on the front porch.
“There you are, Doubles,” the sheriff said, somewhat gruffly. “You'd better come inside. You can tell us what happened down at headquarters.”
“He went for the gun,” Warren said, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. “He actually grabbed it, and then we wrestled around on the rug and—”
Milo put up a hand as we moved indoors. “Hold it, Doubles. You're a suspect. I can't play the old-buddy game. We have to go by the book.”
In the entry hall, Warren turned a puzzled face to Milo. “But… it was an accident.”
The sheriff's temper was fraying. “Shut up. It isn't just my part of the job. If this Felton lives, he could file a civil suit against you. Does that sound like something he might do?”
Warren hung his head. “It sure does. He's a real SOB.”
Standing on the threshold of the vast and showy living room, our eyes immediately fell on the bloodstained Portuguese carpet. A tortured groan erupted from Warren's throat.
“That rug cost a fortune. If Ursula could see that, she'd croak!”
Nobody reminded Warren that Ursula already had.
Chapter Eighteen
VIDA DRANK HOT tea, Milo sipped Scotch, and I nursed a bourbon and water. It was almost midnight, and we were in my humble living room, going over the finer points of the Randall case. Naturally the sheriff brought up the question of Ursula's shoes.
“That
's not so difficult,” Vida said a bit testily. She was still annoyed with me for not telling her about Murray. “Ursula probably thought she and that dreadful young man were going for a joyride in his sports car. It didn't occur to her that they would stop by the river. But when they did, she removed her wedgies. Perhaps she left them in Murray's car. When Ursula drowned, Murray had to get rid of the shoes, so he did the logical thing, and tried to put them back on. But he was rattled— he put one on the wrong foot. Then he either panicked, or something startled him. He drove away, with or without the other shoe.”
Milo was still looking puzzled. “So what you're saying is that Murray could have driven up Mount Sawyer and dumped that shoe, or that my original scenario about the party gang may have been right. One of them found the shoe and took it with them.”
“Perhaps,” Vida allowed. “If they were on drugs or drunk, anything's possible.”
“It's a moot point,” Milo said unhappily. “There's no way to prove Murray killed Ursula. Doc Dewey thinks he'll survive, which means he's going to get off scot-free.”
I heartily sympathized with the sheriff. “Wasn't there some evidence of a struggle? He had motive, opportunity, and probably some kind of record, at least as a juvenile.”
“So?” Milo threw back the last of his Scotch. “The ME's report showed minimal bruising, which could have been caused from the rocks or the underbrush. What happened, I'm guessing, is that Ursula passed out by the river. Murray either planned it that way, or took advantage of the situation. He held her under until she was dead. Try to prove it. As for his previous record, that doesn't count, especially not if he was a kid at the time.”
“But Betsy saw them drive by,” I pointed out, getting up to refill Milo's glass.
Milo grimaced. “Betsy thought it was Doubles. She'd make a lousy witness on the stand. Did Murray admit to you that he even met Ursula, let alone killed her? Did he admit it to Doubles?”
“No,” I replied glumly. “I'm not sure Warren really believes Murray drowned Ursula. Oh, he knows what a horror the guy is, but I don't think he wants to believe that his former stepson committed murder just to get back at him for allegedly causing Alexis's death.”
With a rueful look, Milo accepted the fresh drink from me. “That's another thing—it's a reverse motive. When there's money involved, people usually kill for gain. In this case, Murray killed to prevent somebody else from getting the loot. It would sound damned odd in court.”
“Revenge isn't odd,” Vida noted. “That's the real motive. I find it most credible. I'm sure that his mother's death preyed on Murray's mind all these years. Ursula not only was going to offer Warren a life of ease, but she was taking Alexis's place. Murray must have resented that usurping of his mother's place. If you interviewed people who knew him, they might provide some enlightening information.”
“Maybe,” Milo said. “Maybe not. Felton's a head case for sure. Which means he may have kept it bottled up. It could be that he never thought of actively taking revenge on Doubles until he ran into him at that party or whatever it was.”
That struck me as likely. While Murray may have spent the last decade brooding over Alexis's tragic death, his quest for vengeance might not have manifested itself until he saw Warren again.
“He wants to be caught.” The words tumbled out of my mouth and out of the blue.
Vida and Milo stared at me. “What do you mean?” my House & Home editor demanded.
“Murray never had to show himself to anybody in Alpine—except Ursula,” I said in a rush. “Yet he wants everyone to know how clever he is. That's why he came here tonight to ask me to write that article. It wasn't just that he wanted Warren brought down, Murray also wanted the world to know how clever he was in managing it. If that meant being charged with homicide, so be it. He's never been punished for anything. A father would have disciplined him. Murray's crying out for a stern paternal hand.” I turned to Milo. “I'll bet you five bucks you could get a confession out of him. He not only wants to brag, he wants attention, he wants to finally have some limits set. When we reprimand our kids, it's because we love them. Murray has never felt loved, except by Alexis, who abandoned him as surely as his real father did. He's still a little kid, misbehaving to see if anybody cares.”
“Bull,” said Milo.
“Rubbish,” said Vida.
Neither could daunt me. “Trust me on this. Murray may not be aware of how his mind is working, it's probably all subconscious. That's why he's been a show-off all his life. It wasn't enough to be a weekly newspaper reporter, he had to pretend he was in television.”
“I thought he wanted to meet Carla,” Milo said, apparently not yet buying into my pop psychology.
“Carla was a ruse,” I said. “It was a cover to get to me. I'll bet he never heard of her until he broke into my house and found her name in The Advocate or in my Rolodex.”
“Really,” Vida remarked acidly, “it's a wonder Carla didn't want to meet him! He sounds just her type.”
I ignored Vida. “Come on, Milo. What have you got to lose?”
“Well …” He rubbed at one eye with the palm of his hand. “Nothing, I suppose. I'll have to wait until he's in better shape.”
“If nothing else, you can charge him with breaking and entering,” I said. “False representation, too.” But I wasn't backing down.
Vida condescended to lend me a smattering of support. “Criminals must never go unpunished. Do you want the voters to lose confidence, Milo?”
The sheriff glowered at Vida, then raised his glass. “What the hell. I can give it a shot.”
“I should hope so.” Vida set her teacup down in its saucer. “It wouldn't do for the community—or Murray Felton—to feel that there are loopholes in the law.” Vida sighed. “Such a nasty man. I can't think how his mother let him get away with being so naughty.”
I kept my mouth shut. I didn't dare tell Vida that what had made me suspicious of Murray was Verb Vancich's comment that somebody had recently reminded him of his nemesis at the sportswear shop. It had been Murray himself, all grown up, but Verb's memory had preserved him as the wretched boy trying to swipe a team jersey. I had thought that Verb meant Roger. To say as much to Vida was pointless. I might as well fantasize about Milo grilling Vida's grandson as the unrepentant perpetrator of some heinous crime. In my dreams, the rubber hose and the thumbscrews were back. I leaned against the sofa and smiled.
Sometimes life has a strange way of resolving conundrums. Murray Felton did not confess to Milo. Instead he laughed in the sheriffs face. I lost my five-dollar bet. But meanwhile Milo had intensified his questioning of the Mount Sawyer crew. Two of them had biked down the mountain in search of weed that Friday night. They had seen Murray with Ursula. Thinking they had come upon a playful pair of lovers, the young man and the young woman from Sultan had hidden themselves in the woods, hoping to get a rush from watching riverside passion. Instead they had seen Murray return to his car, where he brought out a pair of shoes. In puzzlement, they observed him putting one of the shoes on the woman they had assumed was his willing sex partner. But the woman remained prone at the river's edge. Now disturbed, the couple called out to Murray, asking if something was wrong. Murray had bolted, jumped into his car, and driven off. He had dropped the other shoe in his wake. The young woman had picked up the shoe while the young man went down to the river. Discovering that Ursula was dead, the duo from Sultan had fled back up the logging road on their motorcycles. They had wished no involvement in what might be a capital crime. It was only during a plea-bargaining session that the truth had come out.
Milo was ecstatic. On Friday, the day after the revelation, he and I had lunch at the Venison Inn.
“Eyewitnesses, that's what it takes.” He gloated over a double cheeseburger and fries. “Circumstantial evidence will only get you so far in front of a jury.”
I was elated for the sheriff. “Does that mean you won't quit your job?” I asked with a wry little smile.
&nbs
p; Milo's glee faded. “I have to serve out my term. Next year, when the election rolls around, we'll see how I feel.”
That was when I unveiled my editorial campaign. Milo seemed pleased, if dubious that such changes could be made. “Look at KingCo,” he pointed out. “They haven't had an elected sheriff for years. But now they're talking about going back to the old way. The trend isn't for appointees.”
“Screw the trend,” I said. “This isn't KingCo, it's SkyCo. Let's face it, Milo—you're damned good at what you do.”
Milo made a disparaging gesture with the hand that wasn't holding the cheeseburger. “What'd I do? Let some bastard break into your house so that you could figure out he'd shoved Ursula's kisser into six inches of the Sky?”
Emphatically I shook my head. “You did what any good law-enforcement official does—you kept after possible witnesses until you found somebody who'd seen something. Who else did you interview besides the Mount Sawyer gang?”
“Sheesh.” Milo's eyes rolled up to the Venison Inn's grease-and-smoke-stained knotty-pine ceiling. “Between my deputies and me, we talked to about sixty people, forty of whom live along the route between Betsy and Jake O'Toole's house and the place on the river where Ursula was killed. Not one of those morons saw a damned thing, except Betsy, who IDed the wrong guy. Boy, does she feel like a dumb-shit.”
“A rich dumb-shit,” I pointed out. “She and Jake and Buzzy and Laura won't have any more money troubles. I don't know how much that matters to Jake and Betsy, but it may mean the world to Laura and Buzzy.”
“You mean Laura'll take Buzzy back?” Milo inquired between french fries.
“She already has,” I replied. “With them, it was always money, or the lack thereof. So often, that's at the root of marital problems. Not sex, not in-laws, not indifference, but paying the bills. Unfortunately there's no quick cure for the Luccis.”
“Yeah,” Milo said in a bemused tone. “I hear Delia packed up and moved to Monroe yesterday. What the hell will she do there?”