The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1)

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  “It’s bullshit! Did Paddy tell you Sheryl and I were supposed to meet the night she was killed?”

  “Yes, he did. And he was upset on account of you putting his wife in harm’s way. In fact, he thinks your actions contributed to her death. I told him not to hold you responsible, that it was part of your investigation. You couldn’t have known—”

  “What he didn’t tell you,” I interrupt. “Is that Sheryl swore to me that Paddy killed Hunter. That it was Paddy who bought the bourbon from Rusty’s the day of the murder, then spiked it. He knew she was still seeing Hunter and waited for the right moment to act. In fact, Paddy was counting on both of them to drink the stuff. He wanted her dead for betraying him, and he had a double suicide note ready for the occasion. Only it backfired when Sheryl returned home that night. You’re right about one thing, Judge. Paddy didn’t want Sheryl to go to jail: he wanted her dead.”

  “Jesus!”

  “That’s right. So Paddy quickly had to draw up another suicide note, this one leaving out his wife’s name, then he delivered it himself. By the time he arrived, Hunter was already dead.”

  “I don’t understand how Paddy could have forged Hunter’s signature.”

  He’s serious. “Hunter charged most of his bills at the bar. You know that. You joined us occasionally. He liked to pay.”

  There’s a sudden stillness on the phone; like a game of chess, both of us are strategically defending our position. He breaks the silence and says, “We were watching the game till almost eleven, Hank. How could he have planted Hunter’s suicide note?”

  That stops me cold. “I’m working on that end of it.”

  “I don’t remember Paddy leaving even to go to the john. Isn’t it possible Sheryl lied to you to save herself?”

  It’s possible, since I made the whole thing up. But it makes sense. Oh, Sheryl, please don’t make a liar out of me. “I think Paddy killed Sheryl to stop her from telling me the truth. Only Paddy was too late. She told me everything before she died.”

  More silence, more strategy. “I’ve known Paddy for years. He’s a hard worker, and a good husband. I can’t believe he would hurt anyone, especially his wife. I think you’re going after the wrong guy.”

  “Then explain how Sheryl’s love letters wound up in Paddy’s office, along with the double suicide note and the strychnine. That’s where Sheryl found them, Judge. You might have been too engrossed in the game to notice that Paddy was missing that night.” I’m treading on one of the judge’s character flaws. I don’t want to allude to his low tolerance for alcohol. He probably had one too many pops to realize where he was that night.

  “And as for murdering his wife,” I continue, “who else had a motive? She hadn’t received threats from anyone…except him. And he threatened Hunter.”

  “You’ll need to prove it, Hank.”

  “I can prove he threatened Hunter, and as for Sheryl’s confession, it’s good enough for me. I have to find those letters and the other evidence. Then you’ll see.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He told me he burned them when he found them.”

  I’m about to tell him that Paddy is full of shit. Instead, I say, “What if I can prove that those letters still exist? I’ll throw in the suicide note and the poison.” I’m pushing, but I need that warrant.

  “But he told me—”

  “Trust me on this, Judge.”

  Judge Prescott hesitates, then says, “Sheryl told you this while she was dying, or are you on some kind of witch hunt?”

  I cross my fingers. “Swear, Judge.”

  The judge’s silence gives me hope. “Well, I guess based on her testimony, it does sounds like probable cause. Okay, come over tomorrow afternoon.”

  Judge Prescott is holding out. “C’mon, Judge, I need to search the bar before Paddy gets any ideas.”

  “Hank, the guy’s making funeral arrangements. Have some compassion.”

  Right, like he had for her.

  “He’s too busy to be thinking about destroying evidence. Besides, he could have gotten rid of them before if he had wanted to. Tomorrow, Hank, fair enough?”

  “It’ll have to be,” I tell him, not pleased.

  Then he hits me in the solar plexus. “And Hank, straighten out the mess in your stationhouse. I know about the petition and newspaper article. The town’s gone crazy over these murders. I don’t like what I’m reading about you. People think that you are the problem. Prove them wrong, my boy. But don’t go fishing on this case, or you’ll likely to be hooked yourself. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Then let me get back to work. And tell Susan I hope she’s feeling better. A shame, what happened.”

  I hang up, tap the dashboard, and consider my next move. Without a search warrant, I can’t go back to the bar, and no one in the town will talk to me. I can always hunt down Wayne, but my depleted energy level is signaling no more confrontations for a while. And that includes Susan. So, instead of paying my wife a visit, I call.

  Susan answers the phone after three rings, her voice suggesting she’s in a lot of pain. I act civil, ask her if she needs anything. She replies with suppressed anger. “Right now, I need a painkiller and life without you, in that order.”

  At least I’m not a priority. When I ask when she’s going home, she says: in a few days and by then, she expects more closet space. Until then, I’m free to stay in her house.

  “Anything else?” I ask sarcastically.

  “Say a prayer for Sheryl’s soul at the funeral tomorrow. Tell Paddy I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. He’ll understand.”

  After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, Susan tells me she’s going back to sleep and hangs up.

  Fourteen

  Funeral services for Sheryl are being held at Calverton Cemetery, which is now a bit more crowded since Hunter was put to rest. Like Hunter’s, Sheryl’s funeral is simple. Unlike Hunter’s weeping women standing alone, most here are represented by couples. The busy Father O’Brady is comforting the bereaved husband.

  Susan is absent from the affair, though I hate using her name in that context. As for my clothes, they are neatly folded inside a dresser drawer at the Country Inn, a modest home-away-from-home lodge. Wayne’s hospitality has come to an abrupt end, although he doesn’t know it yet. In fact, I haven’t spoken to him since his drunken tirade.

  The steady drizzle causes my body to shiver. I’m standing under an oak tree, whose bright red and orange autumn leaves are hanging by a prayer. The leaves don’t shield me completely from the rain, as my fresh gray jacket and spiffed-up boots and hat attest to. I can’t wait to get back in the car and turn on the heater.

  If that sounds callous on such an occasion, it shouldn’t. I’ve already paid my respects to Sheryl several times since she was murdered. I think of her constantly and am guilt-ridden. It’s already gotten around town that I was the last to see her alive. I can just imagine Wayne adding an addendum to the petition. “‘Do you want your police chief to put your life in danger?’”

  Suddenly, the rain stops hitting my hat, the sound of which was driving me crazy. I look up and realize I’m standing under a black umbrella.

  “Thought this might help,” Maggie says with a quick smile.

  It’s the first smile I’ve received in a while, and I smile back. “Thanks. Left mine back at the office.”

  She glances around. “Surely one of these nice folks would have offered you shelter if you asked.”

  I’m not about to tell her my new name is Chief Pariah. “Glad to see you,” I whisper, as though concerned someone might misconstrue my innocent remark.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Maggie says sadly, motioning to the casket.

  My head jerks slightly toward Paddy, who is standing motionless over his wife’s coffin. It’s bad manners to point, so I tell Maggie we have a person of interest and leave it at that. After a few moments, I glance up at the sky and sigh. “
Funerals always seem to be filled with rain.”

  “That’s part of death, Hank,” Maggie adds. “But then the sun follows, then flowers. It’s part of life’s cycle. At least, that’s what my shrink tells me.”

  I nod. “Makes sense.”

  Maggie waits a few minutes before asking, “I never met your wife. Is she attending the service?”

  I shake my head slowly. “She’s having a…procedure done at the hospital. Nothing serious. She’ll be out tomorrow.” Then, as an afterthought, I say, “I moved out for good.”

  She touches my elbow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Then she says lightly, “I guess your deputy has a permanent roommate.”

  “I moved out on him, too,” I say, staring straight ahead.

  Maggie chuckles quietly. “You must be a tough guy to live with, Chief Reed.”

  I’m about to answer when Wayne shows up, standing twenty feet from us. He’s not wearing his regulation hat or raincoat, and he looks as though he’s had another bout with the bottle. I check my watch. He’s also twenty minutes late.

  Wayne glances in my direction, nods quickly, then turns to the casket, which is being lowered into the ground. From my vantage point, I see him wiping his eyes, but I’m not sure if it’s from the rain or tears.

  “Where are you staying?” Maggie asks, breaking my thought.

  “The Country Inn. Just outside town, but I’d rather no one knew about it just yet.” My eyes drift toward Wayne. “Though I’m sure they’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Could get expensive,” Maggie tells me, like a concerned parent.

  I smile to myself, change the subject, and let Maggie know the town appreciates her attending the funeral.

  She glances sideways. “Well, your town was very kind to me with John’s funeral.” Maggie pauses. “Although, I must admit, I had an ulterior motive.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  She nods. “I’m thinking of putting the house up for sale. John’s attorney told me I was the beneficiary. I guess John wanted to lighten his guilt for that period in our lives.” She stops, notices my face deflate, and says, “Of course, I could have done that over the phone.” She gives me a teasing elbow in the ribs and smiles.

  It’s a relief to see her recover from the incident with the photos. I ask whether she plans to stay in town a while.

  “Unfortunately, I need to get back to the city. I’ll catch a train after I finish with the realtor.”

  “You have a long wait,” I say. “The next one doesn’t leave Eastpoint until six-o-five tonight.”

  “Oh. Well I guess I’ll just have to do some shopping.”

  I smile.

  “But if you don’t mind, Hank, I could use a lift to town.”

  “Glad to.”

  As Sheryl disappears into the ground, Judge and Dorothy Prescott turn to Paddy and comfort him. Wayne leaves abruptly, without paying his respects, which doesn’t surprise me, given his sudden contempt for Paddy. The others walk slowly past Sheryl’s coffin, gently tossing flowers, most teary-eyed, and give Paddy hugs. He appears to be caught up in the moment.

  “You go,” Maggie says, motioning me to the gravesite.

  “Be back in a minute.” The rain has turned into a slight drizzle as I follow the other mourners to Paddy, wondering how my presence will be received. His eyes stray from the well-wishers and catch me approaching. Paddy’s face contorts.

  Then it’s just us, face to face, accused and accuser, the body resting below. He glimpses the coffin, then back to me.

  “She was a good friend,” I say. “I’ll miss her.”

  He grabs me, draws me in, and whispers, “You’re wrong about me, Hank. You’ll see.”

  I free myself from his grip, my eyes settling on Sheryl’s coffin. “I hope so.” I turn to leave, feeling Paddy’s stare on my back.

  As Maggie and I step over a few puddles on the way back to my car, it dawns on me that people must be talking about us.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, but I’m not. We drive back to town in silence, my mind preoccupied with the search warrant. Upon reaching Jackson’s Realty, I turn to Maggie. “Good luck,” I say, my voice flat.

  She must sense my indifference. “Thanks,” Maggie says, touching my hand lightly.

  I stop off at the stationhouse to pick up the warrant, which is ready for the judge’s signature. Kate’s in. Wayne’s not. She feeds me a rumor that the town is pushing for a quick election.

  I ask her if she knows who’s really behind the petition, knowing that Wayne isn’t the brightest guy around.

  “I really don’t know, Hank.”

  “Well, someone must have approached Wayne on this.”

  She shrugs. “I’ll try to find out.”

  “Please, Kate. Nobody will talk to me.”

  My secretary’s eyes search the floor. “There’s another rumor, Hank. I’m not prying, mind you, but are you and Susan calling it quits?”

  Fucking small towns! Her eyes meet mine. “It’s okay, really,” I assure her. “I’m sure Susan and I will remain friends.”

  She nods sadly. “Where will you be staying?”

  “At the Country Inn, but no one knows it, so I’d appreciate your secrecy.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s only temporary,” I tell her. “I’ll be looking for a place in town soon.”

  I walk back to my office, pick the warrant off my desk, and study it for third time. Kate stops at the door, her face grim.

  “What?”

  “There’s more.”

  There’s always more. “Go ahead.”

  “They’re saying it’s because of the miscarriage.”

  I close my eyes. More fodder for the petition. “Chief leaves wife after she loses baby.” Insensitive bastard! “It had nothing to do with that,” I defend.

  “A shame, Hank. You guys were trying so long.”

  “We’ve been having problems for a while, Kate. Maybe it was just as well…” I stop. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “’Course not.”

  “I still love Susan.” After a few dead moments, I say, “Kate, tell Wayne we need to talk. Sometime today.”

  “Will do, Hank.”

  I start for the door.

  “Everything turns out for the best,” she calls out.

  Fifteen

  Judge Prescott is removing his tan raincoat when Dorothy opens the door for me. From his frosty expression, I can tell he isn’t pleased to see me. He doesn’t understand my urgency; Paddy isn’t going anywhere, he assures me. The judge thinks I’m completely insensitive to add this to Paddy’s grief right now.

  “The cemetery workers haven’t even covered her casket, Hank.”

  “Judge, Paddy doesn’t need to grieve. He needs to be arrested. He can grieve while he’s doing time.”

  Judge Prescott frowns, hands Dorothy his raincoat, and motions me into his study. He turns to me, sees my hand extending with the warrant. The judge frowns, then grabs the warrant from me. He studies my request and shakes his head, then removes a Mont Blanc from his pocket and scribbles his signature across the bottom of the warrant, his hand trembling. Then he thrusts it back at me as though it were a death sentence.

  I thank him and charge for the door.

  “You tell Paddy I didn’t want to do this,” he calls out after me.

  The warrant is barely dry from the judge’s pen when I reach Salty’s. At least Paddy had the decency to honor his wife’s death by not opening the bar, though I’m told the difference between an Irish funeral and wedding is one less person. Perhaps Paddy hadn’t heard that one.

  In any event, the bar is dark but the door is open, so I slip inside and find my favorite bartender holding a Guinness in his hand. Paddy hoists the bottle as I approach him. “To Sheryl.” He then removes a cold one from behind the bar and watches me as he removes the cap. “It’s safe,” he says, setting it down.

  I don’t drink on the j
ob, but I make an exception this time, take the bottle, and lift it in his direction. “To Sheryl. Maybe she’s in a better place.”

  He blinks hard, takes a slug. “Anywhere is better than here, Hank.”

  “You got that right, Paddy.”

  “You’ve got your own demons, I’m sure,” he says. His eyes weigh heavily on mine, waiting for my reaction. He doesn’t get one.

  “Hunter ruined this town. You, me, Sheryl, Susan.”

  He’s taunting me, but I don’t take the bait.

  “I thought Hunter was screwing only my wife,” he says with a sense of calmness. “Guess I was wrong. To Susan,” he says without malice. “But I guess you already knew that.”

  I still don’t fly into his web.

  “Am I talking out of turn?” he asks. “Or are you and Susan separating ’cause of political differences?” He takes a quick gulp, wipes his mouth with his hand.

  “You tell me. You seem to know more about my life than I do.”

  He offers a tight smile. “Fact is, Hunter and Susan were going at it after he had his fill of Sheryl.”

  I stiffen. No matter how many times I hear it, my reaction is the same.

  “Guess you didn’t know,” he says. “That Hunter was quite a guy.”

  “Who told you this?” I demand.

  “About Susan? Hell, Hunter was doing half the town. Women, that is.” He smirks.

  “Then how come that rumor never circulated around the stationhouse?”

  Paddy downs his beer, places it on the bar. “Easy. Hunter was discreet. At least I’ll give him that much. Otherwise, he would have had a bunch of angry husbands after his ass.”

  “Like you?”

  “Or you, Hank.” He opens another Guinness, takes a long belt. “It certainly wasn’t Peter Hopkins,” Paddy says, deadpan. “My guess is that Hunter killed himself before any of us had a chance.”

  I snort. “You’d like me to believe that, wouldn’t you?”

  He hunches his shoulders. “Hey, it’s your investigation. You wanna waste everyone’s time, go ahead.” He pauses, shows some teeth. “Although I’m told they’re thinking about holding elections for your job. You might want to hurry up and find your killer.”