by Anna Drake
I pulled my car into the parking lot and set off toward the sheriff’s building, which in addition to his offices also housed the county jail. I’d never visited a police department before, and I paused to pull in a generous breath before tugging open the heavy door.
The room I entered looked surprisingly normal. Cinderblock walls were painted a creamy yellow. Some stiff, faded plastic chairs lined one wall. A couple of more inviting seats with padding were lined up opposite them, while a serious-looking man with salt and pepper hair sat behind a metal desk just inside the door. He pulled his gaze away from the pile of papers he’d been sorting. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m here to see Detective Oberton.”
The man on the desk asked my name before checking a clipboard hanging to his right. I must have passed muster as he then offered me directions. “You go straight down the hall to the third door on your right.”
I thanked the man and took off.
Oberton stood when I entered his office, an old-fashioned gesture which I found a lovely treat. He wore his usual khaki slacks topped by a sports coat, but there were dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
Waving me to a chair, we exchanged a few comments about the weather and our health before Oberton got down to business. “What’s this news you have about the Carrie Flynt case?”
“It was after the funeral, sir. While I was at the luncheon. An elderly couple said they’d seen a man going into Carrie’s house the day before she was murdered. If you want to speak with them, their names are Harold and Dotty Stark.”
“Did they recognize the person?”
“No, but they said he was a middle-aged man in a brown suit.”
Oberton smiled at me like a father gazing at a not-too-bright child. “That could have been anyone. A door-to-door salesman or someone she knew and had invited over.”
“Yes, I just thought when you find the suspect, this could be a piece of information that might be helpful. Something to question him about, at any rate.”
“I see. Well, thank you. It’s certainly something no one else has mentioned.”
I nodded. “Also, I’ve lived a good long time now, and I can count on one finger, the number of times a man wearing a suit has stopped by my door recently.”
“What day was this?”
“The day before Carried died.”
“Yes well, thank you. I’ll talk to the Starks just to follow up,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“But don’t get your hopes up. I doubt this will lead to anything.”
“Have you identified any suspects?”
A flicker of a grin played at the corners of his mouth. “I’m always chasing one lead or another.”
“Did the diary help in any way?”
“I’ve looked into it, but we haven’t found any direct connection yet, no.”
“So you have a suspect?”
He ose. “I appreciate your coming in with this information. When I make an arrest, I’ll let you know.”
What? He was giving me the brush off?
***
When I reached home, I slammed the closet door closed and glared at Andrew. “Oberton thinks I’m a nosy old woman”
Andrew chuckled. “You nosy? Hetty, it sounds like he has you nailed.”
I tossed my purse down onto a chair. “Oh, what do you know?” I stomped off to the kitchen. “You’re nothing but a ghost.”
“Ah, but I’m a ghost with an excellent memory.”
“What does that mean?”
“From what I remember of you when we were young, you were not only nosy but competitive too. You want to track down the killer before the police do. Come on now, fess up.”
Ignoring him, I filled my cat’s bowl with fresh water. “Blackie?” I called out.
At least he never made fun of me.
Blackie strolled into the room. I pulled down the kitty treats and set out three of them on the floor. He launched into them.
I looked back to Andrew. “So why are you home? Did you finally get bored with spying on poor Mr. Hubbard?”
“He’s at work. He barely talks to anyone there. I’ll go over to his house tonight. Maybe something interesting will turn up.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Hey, I’m not hurting anyone, and maybe I’ll discover something useful.”
“I don’t suppose you can travel through time?”
“Sorry, no. I wish I could. I’d go back and revisit those years before I died.”
I flinched. How callous of me to remind this poor man of his youthful death. “Andrew, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve had a long time to adjust to my condition. But do you ever think about the time we spent together back then?”
Suddenly tears threatened. I lowered my head. “Of course I do,” I whispered. “I’ve never forgotten a moment of our time together.” I glanced about the room and sighed. “But my priorities changed. I had a husband. He was a good man, but he needed care. And I had children. They needed to be tended. I was so busy. And now… now there’s Blackie and my knitting.”
“And me.
“Yes,” I said, glancing up at him. “Now, there is you.”
He smiled and gazed at me a long moment. “I know you, Hetty. You don’t give up easily. What’s our next move to catch this killer?”
“Oh no you don’t. I’m not feeding you the name of another single person for you to haunt.”
“Me?” he asked, giving me an innocent look. “I’ve told you, you’re the only person who sees me. I’m not frightening anyone. Least of all Hubbard. It takes a little imagination to feel fear, and I’m telling you that man doesn’t have any.”
“You don’t think he killed Carrie, do you?”
“Mind you, this is just a guess, but I’d say the odds are against it. Besides, you didn’t have much reason to suspect him in the first place.”
I couldn’t argue that point. I think some part of me knew I was pushing beyond logic with Hubbard. I shook my head. “If only I knew the town better.”
“Rose told you Carrie was active in a couple of groups. So get out there. Be a joiner. Start talking to these people. They’re your neighbors. You can’t limit your relationships to just me, Rose, and your daughter.”
Blackie mewed.
I glanced down. He sat looking up at me. “Oh Blackie, Andrew didn’t mean to leave you out. He knows I adore you.”
Andrew rolled his eyes heavenward and groaned.
***
I must admit, when I finally took Andrew’s advice and stepped back into the social whirl, I enjoyed myself. And it was at my first meeting of the knitting group that Andrew’s suggestion proved helpful. I was at the home of Doris Campton. She lived in a neat little bungalow on the other side of the river. About fifteen members of the knitting club were scattered around her living room working on our latest projects.
I sat beside a sweet looking young thing, who was hard at work on a baby blanket. Her name was Laura Day. Her knitting was a little raw. Still, I was certain with practice she would improve. But she certainly knew everything there was to know about Lillian Whitcomb, whose name I’d just happened to drop into our conversation.
Laura’s eyes grew large. “Oh, she was such a particular person.”
“You knew her then?”
“Of course. My mom and she were good friends. She visited our house lots of times when I was a kid.”
“Her death must have shocked your mother then.”
Laura nodded. “She took it hard.”
“Did she have any idea why the woman might have killed herself?”
“No, she used to say the woman had everything... even money. Especially money.”
“Really? She was rich?”
“Mom thought her estate had to be worth at least a million dollars.”
I almost dropped a stitch. “A million dollars?”
“Oh, at least.”
<
br /> “What happened to the money?”
“Carrie Flynt inherited all of it.”
“Carrie? Are you sure?” I recalled the woman’s worn kitchen floor. The ancient carpet. The fact she couldn’t afford to pay to have someone call her every day to check on her condition.
What had happened to all that money? I certainly hadn’t seen any signs of it.
“I’ve heard that rumor, too,” a woman to my left said. “But I never believed it.”
Laura, who looked to be a shy creature, stuck out her chin. “Trust me. The story is real. Mom knew one of the men who witnessed the will. He told her Carrie was the heir.”
“Goodness,” I said. “That’s quite a windfall, but I helped Rose clean out Carrie’s house. It didn’t look like the home of a millionaire.”
“I know. I always figured Carrie hoarded the money. Some people are like that, I think. If they’ve been really poor, and they get their hands on some cash, they can’t let go of it. Not even for what most of us would think of as a very good reason.”
“Like new carpeting and paint?” I asked.
She blushed. “Yes, very like that.”
“Who are you talking about?” a woman to my right asked. She appeared to be twice Laura’s age, and from the deep scowl on her face, she also appeared to be twice as unhappy with life. Her name was Valerie Jarrett.
I told her we were discussing the deaths of Mrs. Whitcomb and Carrie.
“Oh dear,” she said. “They were a pair of misfits if you ask me. And as to the money, I know Mrs. Whitcomb’s nephew was struggling. Then, after his aunt’s death, he suddenly marched off to college. If Carrie inherited everything, where did he get that money?” She nodded briskly. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Her nephew?” I asked, attempting to see if she were speaking of the same person whom I’d seen at the funeral..
“Doctor Barstow. He operates out of the hospital in Weaverton. I can’t believe Mrs. Whitcomb wouldn’t have kept the money within the family.”
“Who is this?” a woman across from us asked. She had tightly curled gray hair and a pair of eyeglasses perched at the end of her nose.
“Doctor Barstow,” Valerie said. “I was telling our new member that Mrs. Whitcomb was his aunt.”
“You’ll like him,” the gray-headed woman said, missing the drift of our conversation by miles. “He’s a very good doctor. Everyone says he has wonderful bedside manners.”
I leaned back in my chair and swallowed a grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
But I also closed my eyes in satisfaction, knowing what my next move would be. Everyone needs a doctor, right?
***
A few days later, I waited in an examination room to meet the good Doctor Barstow. His first name turned out to be Phillip. I’d been stunned to wrangle an appointment on such short notice. But I felt terribly lucky that he was accepting new patients.
But if he was such a good doctor, I only hoped he wouldn’t turn out to be his aunt’s murderer. His office had been busy, which was always a good sign and the staff pleasant. As a physician, the man looked promising.
Just then, the examination room door snapped inward, startling me. I sucked in a deep breath. I didn’t often come face to face with a person who I thought might be a killer. And as I studied him, I felt the full weight of my suspicion of a man I’d never met before. And an innocent angel perched on my shoulder gave me a thump on my cheek. Guilt lives strong within me. But I managed to keep my face neutral.
The man who faced me was tall with remarkable blue eyes and hair that was nearly black. I thought he was probably somewhere close to forty. He stretched forth a hand.
“Mrs. Fox?” His grip was firm yet gentle. “May I call you Henrietta?”
“Hetty, please. Everyone just calls me Hetty.”
He beamed. “Very good.”
He put me through the usual paces. I answered all his questions and coughed when told to. I assured him I’d have my medical records transferred over as soon as I could. I’d complained of a bad chest cold, when I’d called for the appointment, so, of course, now I lied saying I’d recovered late yesterday. “I decided to keep the appointment anyway, as I need a doctor here.”
“Perfectly logical,” he replied.
“You came highly recommended.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
”I’m a neighbor of yours… of sorts.”
“Really?” He tapped my right knee and my leg flipped forward.
“Yes, I live in Hendricksville atop the bluff.”
“You have a wonderful view, then,” he said with a smile.
“I do.”
“And you’re new to Hendricksville?”
“I moved there to be near my daughter.”
“Because of physical problems?”
“No. But I thought it might be easier to move now than later.”
“That’s probably true. What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Megan Grant.”
“Hmm, don’t think I know her.”
“She married Lyle Grant.”
“Ah, I’ve seen her with him then. I know Lyle, I just didn’t know your daughter’s name.”
“You grew up in Hendricksville?” I asked.
“Yes. I lived here until I left for college.” He fingered my neck, checking my glands. “After finishing my education, I surprised myself and moved back.”
“I’ve heard it takes lots of money to become a doctor.”
He laughed a bit uncomfortably. “I don’t know what I’d have done without college loans.”
“Ooo, I’ve heard so they’re hard to pay off.”
He sighed. “That’s true.”
At those words, I suddenly doubted he’d been made a millionaire by a deceased aunt. It seemed unlikely doctors sighed that heavily over college loans unless they had a few to pay off.
I smiled to myself. Maybe, this guy was innocent of his aunt’s murder, and I’d be able to stay with the good Doctor Barstow for many years to come.
ELEVEN
After finishing my session with Barstow, I set out for the Weaverton County Courthouse. Three stories tall and made of red brick, it sat in the middle of the Weaverton Downtown Square. Two ring roads circled the impressive old building. Each road offered parking spaces with the outer street lined on the outside edge with shops.
Given their location near the courthouse, a lot of the buildings were crammed full of lawyers’ offices. But there was also a bakery, two banks, an antique mall, and what looked, judging by the number of cars parked near them, to be three very popular restaurants.
After pulling my car into a parking space on the innermost road, I fed the meter and set off for the courthouse. I was eager to learn if the local gossips were correct. Had Carrie really inherited Mrs. Whitcomb’s money?
A series of steep stone steps led to the first floor of the courthouse. Once I’d mounted them, I stepped inside the building and made my way to the County Clerk’s office at the far end of a short hall, where I entered a busy office.
Long windows on the far wall let in the day’s muted sunlight. Yet overhead, light fixtures buzzed. The office smelled of old papers and dust. A total of five women were hard at work at desks scattered about the room. One of them must have caught sight of me out of the corner of her eye, because she rose from her chair and scurried to me.
The clerk was of medium build with short, curly hair, and a businesslike smile. “May I help you?”
“I hope so,” I replied. “I’m looking for the will of a woman named Lillian Whitcomb.”
“Do you have a case number?”
“A what?”
She smiled. “Never mind. I think I can fix you up.” She turned to a computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
Thank you.”
She nodded. “Not a problem.” Then, after staring at the screen for a minute, she grabbed a pen and paper and jotted down some notes. “Files this old are stored in
the other room. It won’t take me long to fetch it. Wait here.” She turned and hurried down a short hallway to a wide exit door.
Behind me, the door to the County Clerk’s office opened and closed. A gentleman stepped up beside me, a stack of papers and briefcase in hand. He was well dressed and well fed and shot me a megawatt smile.
The word lawyer instantly popped into my mind.
A clerk from across the room called out a greeting. She Rose from her chair and came to the counter. Obviously, the man had come to take care of legal business. They huddled for several minutes. Papers and money were swapped. Then, the man gave me a brief nod and left.
Shortly after he’d departed, my helpful clerk hurried back into the office. She carried a large file, which she placed on the counter in front of me. Pointing to a desk on my side of the barrier, she said, “You can sit there to sort through the papers. We’ll make photocopies of any pages you choose. Just give me a wave, and I’ll come right over. The charge is only fifty cents a page.”
I thanked the woman, strode to the desk, and sat. After tugging the file open, I withdrew a deep stack of papers. The depth of the pile surprised me. I hadn’t realized wills generated this much paperwork. But once I started pouring over the stack, I soon realized why there were so many pages.
The will was simple enough. It showed that my little knitting friend had been correct. Carrie Flynt had inherited all of Lillian Whitcomb’s property. The woman’s house, investments, cash, and every scrap of whatever she owned was targeted to go to Carrie as the estate’s only heir.
Then I came across a second batch of papers. They turned out to be part of a petition contesting the will. In them, a woman named Madge Barstow claimed Carrie had used her position of housekeeper to unduly influence Mrs. Whitcomb. Without such influence, the petition said, her sister would never have left her money to Carrie. Based on the fact that Madge was Lillian’s sister and closest living relative, she asked the judge to throw out the current will and name her and her son as the rightful heirs.
My jaw dropped. Doctor Barstow’s mother had actually gone to court to try to get her hands on her sister’s money.