by Jack Parker
Of course it could have been someone they hadn't thought about yet. Someone else who felt Dad had treated them badly, that left a pretty wide-open field Gracie thought. And what had happened to the gun? The police had searched around the mansion and come up empty-handed. No telling where it was now. The murderer could still have it or they could've even sold it. If she were the murderer she'd throw it away somewhere that no one would think to look – but where would that be?
CHAPTER 21
It was Tuesday morning, the day before Dad's funeral. Relatives were coming in from out of town, great uncles and second cousins Gracie didn't even remember. There was so much to be done to get ready that Clarissa had taken the day off work and Gracie had stayed home from school. They'd decided to treat themselves to a breakfast out before they got started.
"They're not busy this time of morning," Gracie said as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "Why'd you park way out here?"
Clarissa climbed out of the big Escalade and turned to look at Gracie. "I don't want someone to park too close and ding up the car. You know how big this thing is!"
"Yeah, and I know how much gas it guzzles, too," Gracie grumbled as they began walking to the restaurant. "It's a pain in a bunch of ways, I wish you'd sell it."
"Well, if I should decide to sell it, I want it in good shape so it'll be worth more." Her mother grinned at her.
They made their way in, were seated, and spent a few minutes looking over the menu. The waitress wandered over with the coffeepot, poured some for Clarissa and promised to return with a large OJ for Gracie.
Gracie watched idly as her mother stirred cream into her coffee; she usually drank it black but was allowing herself a small indulgence this morning. "How can you drink that stuff, Mom? It tastes bitter."
"It's an acquired taste," Clarissa replied as she blew across the top of the cup to cool it. "The cream helps with the bitterness, and of course some people like their coffee sweet."
"Dad did," Gracie reminded her. "He liked those fancy Starbuck's lattes, with all the milk and sugar and flavorings. Yuck! I tried a sip once, I think I like plain ol' coffee better."
"Yes, and he wouldn't eat a plain donut or even a Danish, always insisted on having a croissant with his latte," her mother said. "He thought it make him look suave and European, or something."
Gracie's orange juice came and they ordered. Gracie stared out the window at their car at the back of the parking lot. She seemed to be thinking.
"What're you staring at?" her mother asked.
"I was just thinking about what you said about not getting the car scratched. Dad's car had a big scratch on it when the police found it the next day. A scrape like the lieutenant described couldn't be from someone banging it with their door, he'd have had to have driven too close to something sticking out to make a long scratch."
"Maybe someone got too close when they parked next to him and scraped the side of his car with their bumper or something," Clarissa said.
"Whatever it was, I bet Dad was pissed!"
"Gracie, watch your language in public, young lady," Clarissa admonished.
Gracie ducked her head and said "Sorry" in a tone that said she wasn't really. She was thinking, remembering what she'd been thinking a few days ago when she was wondering if someone had gotten mad and gone off on Dad.
"Or someone keyed his car," she said. "It happens all the time at school, someone gets mad and it's an easy way to get back at them. But it could've happened anywhere, probably isn't connected to the attempt on his life."
Breakfast came and Gracie dug into her omelet with relish, her attention on eating. They discussed what they needed to accomplish and worked out a general schedule, which would probably get changed more than once before the day was out.
The waitress took their empty plates and refilled Clarissa's cup. Gracie sat back and watched her mother stir the cream in. "The lieutenant said there was a coffee stain and crumbs on the passenger seat of Dad's car," she said thoughtfully. "It bothers me because I know he'd have cleaned it up as soon as he noticed it. But I was just wondering, what if he didn't spill it?"
"I guess he could've taken someone somewhere, maybe a favor to a client," Clarissa said. "Though I'd be surprised if he'd allowed them to bring food in his car. You're right about that, he was particular about keeping the car clean." She thought for a minute. "I suppose whoever he gave a ride to could've found the gun and taken it, then for some reason shot at your father."
Gracie drained the last of the OJ and said, "I don't know. None of this makes any sense. But it bothers me – enough that I'm gonna talk to Lieutenant Freeman about it."
"Well call him on the road, we've got to get to the funeral home and then to the airport to pick up your Uncle Frank."
* * * *
Ken Freeman hung up the phone and shook his head. Gracie Greene was a smart young lady, but she'd got a bee in her bonnet about that coffee stain. He'd assured her that he'd checked with all the people on her father's itinerary and none of them said they'd ridden in his car that morning. But she'd been so insistent about the kind of coffee and crumbs that he decided it was worth a shot to have them checked out. They hadn't gotten there all by themselves.
A couple hours later he got the lab report: black coffee and powdered sugar donut crumbs. Not at all the fancy latte and croissant the kid said her dad favored. He double-checked the report on the stain to be sure, but yes, nothing had apparently blocked the spilled coffee, a passenger hadn't spilled it. It had dripped down the side of the seat, almost as if someone had reached in the window and spilled it on purpose.
A memory was trying to surface. Ken knew better than to force it, so he continued working. A few minutes later his brain had managed to access the memory and the image played out in his mind: a man holding a coffee mug, tucking a donut against the cup so he could free up his right hand to shake. He put aside the case he'd been working on and grabbed the Greene file.
Yes, there it was. Jack Dunbar, co-worker of Greene's. Ken had noted the man seemed to dislike Greene, had accused him of stealing clients. He'd been in the office at the time of the murder, but where was he when Greene was shot at earlier? Had he been the shooter?
Ken thought about calling Dunbar, then realized there might be another way to find out. He got up and walked over to the computer lab and asked the geek to see if that downtown parking garage used electronic access cards. They did. It took a little while, but the techie got the data from the security company. Jack Dunbar's card had been used to gain access to the facility at 12:55 PM on Tuesday. He'd used it again at the exit gate at 1:01 PM.
It was always possible that the guy had just realized he'd forgotten to do something or gotten a phone call requiring him to leave immediately, but it did seem odd that he'd leave so soon after arriving. Ken had the man's cell phone records checked, no calls to or from the phone within 15 minutes of that timeframe. After the kid Justin's confession about the potshot and falsified burglary it was pretty clear Greene must've had the gun with him, but how would Dunbar have gotten it?
Ken sighed, it was a long walk to the department garage but he felt he needed to see the car again. Maybe something would come to mind if he was standing in front of it.
Greene's Jaguar was stored in a corner of the building. Ken consulted a photo and mapped out the position of the car as found against its current setting. The exit door would've been about here, the car approximately 20 feet to the right with its back end facing you. The door gave onto a stairway leading to the upper levels, as well as to the street. Why would Dunbar have gone into the garage at all, wouldn't he have just gone down the stairs and walked on out to head back to the office?
Well, there was a trash barrel standing beside the door to the left as you faced it from inside the garage, maybe he'd popped in to throw something away. Ken walked to the 'door' and mimed opening it, stepping through and tossing some trash. He was facing away from the car. But when he turned to open the 'door' again it would be easy
to look to his right a little and catch sight of the car. He walked over to the Jag.
The long scratch down its side caught his eye. Ken pulled his keys out of his pocket and pretended to scratch the paint. Dunbar was a wimpy looking guy, he might've thought that kind of childish action would get back at Greene. Ken followed the line with his finger; it ended in the middle of the passenger door which put him in position to look inside the window. Had he seen something inside that he wanted to steal? Had he broken in and in the process spilled his coffee? Had he found the gun, lain in wait, shot at Greene and then left again?
Ken called Dunbar, asking him if he'd drop by to talk about the case. He made it sound like he just wanted some general info on Greene's character and associates at work. Dunbar showed up about thirty minutes later; Ken took him into one of the spare and uncomfortable interrogation rooms.
Ken apologized for the room, telling Dunbar it was the only place available. He started asking the kinds of general questions he'd implied, letting Dunbar get comfortable and think he was safe. The man's attitude had changed; he still made it clear he hadn't liked Greene but now it seemed to be a moot point since the man was dead. Ken slipped in a comment about Greene's car being broken into, but Dunbar only commented that he'd heard about the smashed window. He was a little nervous, but then most people were when being questioned at the station.
Out of the blue Ken asked, "May I see your keys, Mr. Dunbar?"
Jack looked startled, repeating, "My keys?"
"Yes, sir. Your keys. May I see them?"
Jack tried to look confused, but he was beginning to squirm. "Why do you need my keys? I was at the office when Charles was killed."
"You're in the auto insurance business," Ken said in an apparent change of subject. "You deal with claims of cars being broken into all the time."
Jack nodded mutely, confused for real now.
"Do you know how to break into a car Mr. Dunbar? Maybe it's a little skill you picked up so you can show your clients how easy it is and convince them to take out more coverage."
"That wouldn't be ethical, Lieutenant," Jack said. "Though I wouldn't have put it past Charles to do that, if he'd thought of the gimmick. No, sir, I don't know how to break into a car. My college roommate used a coat hanger to get into mine once, when I'd locked my keys inside. But I don't know how he did it, and anyway today you'd have to get past all the electronic security. I sure don't know how to do that!"
"I didn't say anything about getting past alarms. Not all cars have them, mostly expensive cars. Like Jaguars. Are you sure you didn't break into Mr. Greene's car?"
Jack tried false bravado. "Yes, I'm sure I didn't break into Charles' car! What, do you think I've got a duplicate key on my ring?"
"No, but maybe some paint in the teeth of your own car key. The one you used to scratch the side of Greene's car on Tuesday," Ken told him. "Right before you broke in, found the gun, and tried to kill him."
"I did no such thing!" Jack tried to sound confident, but his voice squeaked at the end.
"I can get a search warrant," Ken said. "If the lab boys find traces of auto paint that match Greene's car you'll be arrested for attempted murder."
Jack slumped in his chair. "Could I have a cup of coffee?"
Ken got up and poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, handed it to Jack. He sat down and waited, knowing Dunbar was about to confess.
Jack took a drink and looked across the table at Ken. "I swear I didn't try to kill the man. But I did shoot at the car."
"The car?" Ken asked. "Why?"
"I got to the parking garage a little before 1:00 that day," Jack began. "I had some trash in the car from lunch, stuck it under my arm so I could drop it in the barrel on my way out. Didn't want to stink up the car. When I did I happened to see Charles' car parked a few feet away. It pissed me off that he'd managed to find a prime slot nearly in front of the door, and I'd had to park three floors up and walk down."
Ken just nodded for Jack to continue.
"He was such a pompous ass, yet he always seemed to get the breaks. I knew he was proud of that Jag, so I figured I'd key it, leave a big scratch. It sounds immature to say it now, but I was angry at the time. I looked around to make sure no one was looking, walked over and drug my key along the side."
"But when I got to the window I saw it was down. That really got my dander up. You'd think he'd know better than to leave the car open like that, but he was arrogant enough to assume that no one would steal it. So you see, I didn't need to break in."
"He left his car unlocked in a public parking garage?" Ken asked, amazed.
"I don't know if he did all the time, but he had that day. It was a nice day, he might've had the windows open as he drove. I guess he thought he'd just be a few minutes and didn't bother. I don't know, but it was down. Then I saw the gun."
"It was in plain sight? In an unlocked car?" Ken asked.
"Yeah, it was just lying there on the passenger seat," Jack said. "I reached in the window and took it. I thought it would serve him right to have the gun stolen. I mean, he'd practically invited someone to take it!"
"Did you have a cup of coffee with you?"
Jack thought for a second before replying. "Yes, I think I did. I like coffee and Donettes, Charles was always razzing me about them. I keep a bag in the car so I can grab a couple whenever. In fact, I remember now, I'd been munching one as I keyed the car. A little dessert after lunch. What's that got to do with all this?"
"You spilled the coffee when you reached for the gun," Ken told him. "And got powdered sugar crumbs on the seat. I remembered you were eating a donut the day we met in Mr. Wilkins' office."
"Oh," Jack said, tonelessly.
"So you took the gun from the car. Then what?"
"Like I said, I was angry. As I walked back to the door I just seemed to get madder and madder. The man was so careless, leaving a gun lying around like that. I decided I'd really get his goat, I'd shoot the gas tank and his precious expensive car would explode"
"You've been watching too many movies, Mr. Dunbar," Ken said. "That doesn't happen in real life."
"I know that now," Jack replied. His tone was emotionless as he continued his story. "I stood behind the exit door, it was open just far enough so I could see around it to shoot. I thought it would shield me from the explosion. Except the car didn't explode! That made me even madder, so I shot at it again. My hand was shaking, that first shot was loud in that garage, I thought people would come running to see what the noise was. So I was nervous, my aim was off, and the bullet went through the window. The car alarm went off, and I knew I had to get out of there."
"You're saying Mr. Greene wasn't in the car when you fired the gun?" Ken asked.
"That's right. I wasn't trying to kill him, that thought never entered my head. That would be murder, and I could never murder anyone. I don't have the guts. I just wanted to ruin his car. I know you think it's connected to the murder later in the day, but I had nothing to do with that," Jack replied.
"What confused us was that your second bullet went through the car's headrest, making it look like someone had tried to kill Mr. Greene in the garage," Ken told him.
"Oh." Jack seemed totally uninterested. By this time he was so demoralized he couldn't seem to think of anything but telling the cop what had happened. "I tossed my coffee cup in the trash so I could use both hands to wipe off the gun, ran to the car and threw it back on the seat. I didn't want to risk keeping it. Then I ran out of there and back upstairs to my car and left. I didn't know what else to do. That's all there was."
Ken looked at the little man slumped in his chair. "You're under arrest for vandalism and illegal discharge of a firearm."
* * * *
It was late in the afternoon; Ken had finished questioning someone about another case and decided to drop by the Greene home to tell them that another piece of the mystery had been solved. He knew the funeral was the next day, so he wasn't surprised to find the whole group of family a
nd friends at the house.
They were surprised to hear about Jack Dunbar's vandalism, though the doctor did remember Greene had made an ugly comment about a co-worker at the party. There was a ripple of relief in their halting laughter over the coincidence of the bullet passing through the headrest. It made them all feel a little easier knowing that the man hadn't been trying to kill Greene, though it didn't answer the question of who had.
"You figured all that out from a coffee stain on the seat?" Clarke asked.
"I did," Ken replied with a smile. "After your sister convinced me that it was important."
"Way to go, Gracie!" Clarke said enthusiastically.
"I'm afraid the lieutenant thought I was bothering him," Gracie said. "But I just kept thinking that I couldn't explain it away so it must be important. I'd thought about someone keying the car, too, but it never occurred to me that it was connected."
"Well, I'm glad you kept bothering me about it," Ken said. "Once I had those crumbs analyzed it triggered a memory of meeting Dunbar; he was eating one of those donuts then. I'd eliminated him as a suspect of the actual murder, but had been making the mistake of assuming the shots in the garage were related."
"I know we're all glad to learn the truth about the damage to the car," Clarissa said. "At the risk of stating the obvious, that still leaves the actual murder. Have you learned anything more about that?"
"Not a great deal, but I do have some good news on that front," Ken replied. "I've been able to verify alibis for Mr. Wilson and his daughter, and for Ms. Thomas also. They were indeed where they said they were at the time of the murder."
This was greeted with nods and mumbles of "good", except for Jeanine who loudly inquired, "You mean you really thought I might've done it?"
"I have to check out every possibility," Ken said diplomatically.