Murder Take Two

by Charlene Weir

  “A man of his description waited for the elevator with me one evening. He had a backpack that he handled like it had the combination to the safe. It had a luggage tag with his name on it.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “No, ma’am. Except he’s been around watching the filming.”

  “Any reason why you noticed him?”

  “No. Just a face I saw a lot.”

  They searched out Howard Gilbert in his office. When they came in he stood up from his desk and grimaced. “Don’t tell me there’s something else.”

  “I need a piece of information,” Susan said.

  “Oh, boy, this really isn’t good for the hotel. The manager’s not happy. This really isn’t good. What information?”

  “Have you got a Delmar Cayliff staying here?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “No.” Howie looked between her and Yancy and gazed somewhere in the distance. “There’s privacy and confidentiality and—”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Yancy said. “Tell her.”

  “Oh, God. Why do you want to know?”

  “Only to talk with him,” Susan said.

  Howie shook his head back and forth in another “oh, boy, this isn’t good for the hotel” gesture, then without sitting down tapped keys on the computer. “We have a Delmar Cayliff staying here.”

  “Room number?”

  He sighed extravagantly. “One-oh-three.”

  Yancy leaned over the desk and patted Howie’s cheek. Howie didn’t think it was funny.

  In the corridor, she asked, “Have you known him long?”

  “Ever since elementary school. He’s a sort-of friend.”

  “What kind of friend is a sort-of friend?”

  Yancy smiled his enchanting smile. “The kind your mother tells you to be friends with because he’s a weird kid and nobody likes him and he never gets chosen for the team and he’s lonely.”

  Susan would have picked Howie for that kind of kid, she’d guess as an adult he was a loner. When her knock at 103 went unanswered, she tapped again. “Mr. Cayliff?” No response.

  Before she could get back to check on Osey’s progress, Officer Ellis said Robin McCormack wanted to see her.

  17

  “I heard Sheri Lloyd was stabbed.” Robin McCormack, standing at the steps to the prop truck, which was actually a long trailer, jammed his fists into shorts and directed the question at Yancy.

  Susan replied in the affirmative and waited to see where this was going. The sun was riding low over the hills and mosquitoes were venturing out for the night’s victims. One buzzed past her ear and she slapped at it. The ever-present wind was blowing in warm breezes.

  “And the knife has a silver eagle on the handle?”

  “It might be an eagle, yes.”

  “I think it’s mine.” He slapped his bare thigh leaving a bloody smear where a mosquito had landed for dinner. “I just checked. One’s gone.”

  “Where was it kept?”

  Robin, a hand raking reddish hair back, took the four steps into the trailer with two jumps.

  A narrow open space ran the entire length. Tall wooden chests lined both sides, their tops covered with plastic bins and cardboard boxes, all labeled—wedding rings, eyeglasses, police hardware, earwigs, license plate screws (wherever the story was supposed to be had to have the correct license plates). “You never know what the director might call for,” he said as she read labels.

  He shoved a plastic basket of umbrellas closer to a phone booth and stacked a box of handbags on top of a hotel-type ice machine, handed Yancy a box of briefcases, and removed the padlock on the solid piece of metal running up the length of a stack of drawers. In the bottom drawer, knives of all shapes and sizes—curved blade, curved handle, rope handle, with silver, with turquoise, with lapis, jeweled—were wrapped in bubble packing.

  “One’s missing. Steel blade, bone handle with a silver eagle inset.”

  “These are all real?”

  He nodded. “Except the gems. They’re as fake as you get. But the blades are steel and I keep them sharp.”

  “You always keep them locked up?”

  “Not always, but the truck doors are locked unless I’m here.”

  “You never leave without locking the door?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did the knife get itself missing?”

  “If I was going to be gone for just a second—only a second or two—I might not take the time.”

  “When was it taken?”

  “No idea. It was there Friday morning because we used one.”

  “This one?”

  “No.” He unwrapped a black-handled knife with a six-inch blade. “But the eagle-handled knife was here then.”

  “How do you keep track of things?”

  He looked around the solidly packed truck. “You’d be surprised how good I am at it. It’s my business.”

  “Do you have any guns?” If a gun or two were also missing, there’d be additional worry. To use a knife, the assailant had to get close to the intended victim. With a gun that wasn’t necessary.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are they?”

  “The safe.”

  At the other end, surrounded by boxes, sat a tall black safe. “Who has the combination?”

  “I do.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “No.”

  “Blanks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No live bullets?”

  Robin shook his head. “They’re never used.”

  “After it’s been gone over for prints, I’ll have somebody show you the knife to be certain,” she said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “This hasn’t been questions?”

  She smiled. “A few more.” She nodded at the caterer’s tent. “Let’s go over there.”

  At eight in the evening the long tables were empty. She indicated to Robin that he should sit at one and she sat across from him. Yancy stood behind him and the sunlight that angled in sketched his shadow long.

  “What time did you see Sheri on the Patio?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It felt late, but it probably wasn’t. Putting in a long day makes you cash in early.”

  “Sheri was still there when you left? Who else?”

  He leaned back in the folding chair and slid his feet under the table. “Some guy. Who knows.”

  “Have you seen him before?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Where?”

  “The hotel, I guess.”

  “What does he look like?”

  He straightened, shifted from side to side, leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “Just a guy. Thirties, maybe brown hair. He was just sitting there with a glass in front of him. I was drinking club soda, that I can tell you. Nick and Laura were head to head over a table spitting at each other.”

  “What about?”

  Robin slumped back. “You mean, this time? Who knows. They’ve been fighting ever since we got here. Sheri sat down with them and they both froze up with politeness.” For the first time there was emotion in his voice, it was black.

  “Why did you dislike Ms. Lloyd?”

  “She was a pain in the butt. The only thing she had going was looks and she didn’t waste them on being easy to work with. She was so dumb she couldn’t cross the street by herself.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “Hey, that’s not my job, man. If you’re through, I’d like to get out of here.”

  She let him go, stuck her notebook in her shoulder bag, and poked the pen in beside it.

  “Let’s go see your mother,” she said to Yancy.

  He was obviously uncomfortable, but he kept his eyes on the road and flicking across the mirrors, hands competent on the wheel. It was an odd situation and not one she had ever experienced before—driving your superior out to interview your mother. She knew Raina Yancy had suffe
red a stroke about a year ago and wasn’t showing much sign of improvement. Hazel Riis, dispatcher and keeper of the flock with clucks and coos, had told her.

  “She may or may not be lucid,” he said.

  “What is it you’re worried about?”

  “Uh—you mention blood and she’s apt to wander off into some ballad. She knows a lot of those that deal with blood.”

  “You’re afraid I won’t be able to tell fact from fiction?”

  “Uh—no, ma’am.”

  “Relax. I’ve been a cop a long time. I’ve even been known, once in a while, to separate fact from fancy.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, still tight as a tick.

  They drove past fields of growing things, she had no idea what. Due to all the heavy rain in early spring, everywhere was lush and green. The greens were different here than in California. She didn’t know exactly how—deeper, denser, richer somehow. Small hills stretched away under the endless sky, clouds, big and puffy, lazily broke apart and drifted south.

  He turned down a gravel drive. Sprouting up here and there in the middle of a field of flowers were tall poles with what looked like birdhouses on top.

  “Bats,” Yancy said, either because he guessed her thoughts or he was accustomed to explaining. He pulled up to the garage and cut the engine. She slid from the car. Locusts were sawing away, ubiquitous sound of a Kansas summer, like the hot winds always blowing. The air smelled of honeysuckle. Yancy was looking a little apprehensive.

  The screen door opened and a woman said, “Peter? Is anything wrong?” Raina Yancy, Susan assumed. A big black dog rushed out, tongue lolling.

  “Nothing, Mom.” He patted the dog’s shoulder and then it nudged its big head up under Susan’s hand.

  On the porch, Yancy held the edge of the screen for Susan to enter. In the kitchen, she was introduced to his sister, Serena, slender in jeans and T-shirt, who held some sort of nonverbal communication with her brother and then excused herself, saying she’d be in her room if she was needed.

  “This is my boss, Mom. Chief Wren.”

  Raina Yancy slid her arm through her son’s, hugged it tight, and held out a hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Wren. Let’s go into the other room.”

  “This is fine, Mom. Sit down. She just wants to talk.”

  “I’ll put the coffee on.”

  “I’ll do it.” Yancy steered his mother to the table.

  The dog squeezed underneath and flopped down with a big sigh.

  Raina smiled and Susan knew where Yancy got his sweet smile. “They don’t like me using the stove,” Raina said. “They think I’ll set myself up in flames.”

  “It’s happened,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, that’s true,” she admitted to Susan. “What is it you want to talk about?”

  With an apologetic glance at Susan, Yancy brought two cups to the table. From the refrigerator, he took a carton of milk and poured some into a small pitcher, snatched the sugar bowl and put both on the table.

  She studied Raina Yancy. Late forties, she judged. Perfect oval face, dark hair to just below the jawline. Dark eyes, clear and luminous. She was beautiful now; as a young woman she must have been stunning. Susan wondered about Yancy’s father. Who was he and what happened to him?

  “Mrs. Yancy—”

  “Please call me Raina.”

  “Raina, you were at the Sunflower Hotel last night.”

  “Was I?” She looked at her son for the answer. “Come and sit down, love.” She patted the chair to her right. “You look tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Go ahead,” Susan said when he hesitated.

  He pulled out the chair and sat sideways in it, then picked up his mother’s hand. “What did you do at the hotel last night?”

  “You think I’m nutty.”

  “Mom, you’ve always been nutty. Think about last night.”

  “He’s right, you know,” she confided to Susan.

  “You were sitting out on the Patio at the hotel,” he said.

  “Was I?”

  “Yes, you were, Mom.”

  “Oh dear, I don’t recall—” She looked frightened.

  “It’s okay,” Susan said. “What did you do yesterday evening?”

  “I watched a movie.”

  “On television? What movie?”

  “I usually only watch lighthearted fluff movies. This one wasn’t. A woman got stabbed.”

  Susan felt Yancy tense. “What was the name of the movie?” she asked.

  “Oh, I can’t seem to remember—”

  “In the movie, who did the stabbing?”

  “A woman. I remember she had long blond hair.”

  Susan tried to get details, about the movie, about the stabber, about the victim, but got nothing. “What else did you do yesterday evening?”

  “We went for a walk. Elmo and I.”

  The dog, under the table, hearing his name, thumped what he had for a tail.

  “He likes to go out after the sun goes down, when it cools off. It’s cooler today, did you notice? Much more like it should be this time of year. The heat wave’s over.”

  Susan hoped so. Mrs. Baker had called her again today to repeat that the heat wave was because of the wicked movie people. It wouldn’t cool down until they left. “Where did you go on your walk?”

  “I did,” Raina said as though suddenly remembering. “I went to the hotel. I sat out there on the Patio and had something to drink. Oh, what was it—?” She kept her eyes on her son as he got up to pour coffee.

  “Who was there?”

  “Laura Edwards and Nick Logan. Right here in Hampstead. Isn’t that a hoot? Another one—I can’t think of her name.” She looked to Yancy for help as he set a cup in front of her. “Hair like a winter fox. Pouty expression.”

  “Sheri Lloyd?” Susan said.

  “Yes. She didn’t like Elmo. Poor Elmo, there was a man there who didn’t like him either. A girl with pink hair—” Raina’s voice faded out as she thought, then she said, “I talked with her.”

  “What about?”

  “Movies, I’m sure. People who worked in the movie business.” She thought, mind searching. “Clem Jones.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I guess I must have come home.” She sang in a clear soft voice.

  “God give you joy, you two true lovers,

  In Brides-bed fast asleep;

  Lo I am going to my green grass grave,

  And am in my winding sheet.”

  Susan felt goose bumps on her arms. Yancy patted his mother’s hand and said, “Come back, Mom. Last night. How’d you get home?”

  “We walked—no, only started. I pooped out before we got even halfway.”

  Susan wasn’t surprised. It must be ten miles or more.

  “That boy—what’s his name—oh, you know, the one who works at the service station?” She looked to Yancy. “Oh, you know the one I mean.”

  “Kevin Murphy?”

  “Yes.” She turned back to Susan. “Kevin gave me a ride. He didn’t mind Elmo in his car.”

  “How did you get blood on your hands?”

  She looked at her palms, then at the backs. “Blood?

  “And first came out the thick, thick blood,

  And syne came out the thin,

  And syne came out the bonny heart’s blood;

  There was nae mair within.”

  Raina either didn’t know she’d had blood on her hands and therefore couldn’t know how it had gotten there or she was deliberately sinking into vagueness. What a handy excuse, if you had something to hide. Susan drank the coffee, thanked Raina, and stood up.

  “Peter—?”

  “I gotta go back to work, Mom.”

  “Ohh, I hoped you could stay awhile.”

  “I’ll be in the squad car,” Susan said.

  A minute later Yancy came out and slid under the wheel.

  “Sorry,” he said
. He backed out and headed into town.

  “Your mother is lovely,” Susan said. “Does she stay by herself?”

  “She shouldn’t, according to my sister.”

  He didn’t volunteer any more and she dropped it. None of her business. “Where does she get the movies she watches?”

  “You’re not thinking she saw Sheri Lloyd stabbed?”

  “Isn’t it a possibility?”

  “No,” he said. “You saw how she is, she’s hardly coherent.”

  “Calm down. She’s coherent. She simply can’t remember things. It’s unlikely. It needs to be followed up. We have a long blond-haired woman with something that could be construed as a motive.”

  “Laura Edwards? But—”

  “I said it’s unlikely. I’ll put in extremely if that makes it better. Now, where does she get the movies? She owns them? Television? Video rentals?”

  “My sister keeps her supplied with videos. That way, Serena hopes she’ll be occupied. Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. A friend comes by in the morning and in the afternoon.”

  Guilt was leaking into his voice. “Yancy, I’m not making judgments here, I’m conducting an investigation.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is Pickett’s garage open this late?”

  He looked at his watch. “Just barely.”

  “Head over there.”

  On Fourth Street, he pulled up to the open door of the bay at the end of the garage. At a gas pump, Kevin Murphy was checking oil for a customer. Susan and Yancy got out of the squad car and waited. Kevin slammed the hood, cleaned the windshield, and collected money, paying no attention to them beyond a sideways glance. After he’d made change and the customer drove away, he started back into the repair area. Susan called to him.

  “Ma’am?” He was not quite sneering. Seventeen, high school football star, an athlete who moved with the lightness of a cat. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, straight dark hair that fell into resentful dark eyes. A narrow face that would have been handsome except for the insolence that was barely hidden. A young man full of resentment, not especially of cops, or apparently even of authority, but for the entire adult world. How Charlie Pickett put up with him, she didn’t know. Except that Charlie knew boys. He had five of his own, four worked with him at the garage. Osey was the youngest and a damn good detective.