Merck looked affronted. Before he could answer, Tom said, “No, Troy, I’m afraid Mr. Merck is a little more selective about who he represents. Your mother called and said to tell you she’s working on finding somebody for you, but it might take a while.”
Natalie retreated to a window, her back to the men. She trembled so violently that the dark hairs on her fur coat vibrated as if stirred by a breeze.
“You two know each other, I believe,” Tom said. “Mrs. McClure? Didn’t you tell me that Troy used to work for you? Back when he worked for a living.”
“He did a few chores for my husband and me,” she said without looking around. Her voice sounded high and thin. “A long time ago.”
“How you doin’, Mrs. McClure?” Shackleford said. “How’s Dr. McClure?”
Natalie started as if he’d poked her with a stick.
Merck demanded, “What’s going on here?”
Not enough to suit Tom. “Let’s all sit down and see if the two of you can fill in some gaps for me.”
“This is absurd,” Merck blustered. “We’re leaving.”
Natalie turned, and her eyes flew to Shackleford like metal to a magnet. His gaze held hers, and Tom could see in Shackleford’s face a warning, a threat.
An amazing thing happened: Natalie’s already fragile composure cracked like crazed glass. A faint keening sound rose from her throat.
“Natalie?” Merck said, clearly unnerved. “Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”
But she seemed rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on Shackleford. And Shackleford was beginning to look as alarmed as Merck.
Tom stepped closer to her and said quietly, “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? A long time to live with such a terrible secret.”
“Leave my client alone!”
“I’m sure you’ve heard how Pauline was killed,” Tom said to Natalie. “Her head was split open with an ax, right through to her brain.”
“Oh, God,” Natalie whimpered. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.
“Get ahold of yourself,” Shackleford said. “Don’t let him play this game with you.”
“We’re done here,” Merck said. Grabbing Natalie’s arm, he pulled her toward the door.
She stumbled, then her legs gave way and she folded. Tom sprang forward and he and Merck caught her and helped her to the bench. Tom pushed her head down to her knees and ordered, “Breathe. Deep and slow.” He signaled Dennis and Brandon to remove Shackleford.
“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing,” Merck said, “but you’re way out of line. This stunt is unprofessional and unethical and—”
“I think it’s time for your client to tell me the truth,” Tom said.
Natalie began to sob, her face buried in the lush fur of her coat.
Dennis and Brandon shoved Shackleford through the door to the jail. He shouted back to Natalie, “You’ll keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you!”
Chapter Thirty-eight
“I don’t want you saying another word,” Cecil Merck told Natalie. With a hand on her elbow, he hauled her to her feet. “We’re leaving.”
“I think we should go in my office and talk,” Tom said.
“Absolutely not. Mrs. McClure came here willing to answer questions, but after the stunt you’ve pulled, she’s withdrawing her cooperation.”
Natalie stared at the floor, her smooth golden hair draping her cheeks.
“Mrs. McClure,” Tom said, “I believe you have something to tell me.”
When she raised her head, she was so pale that Tom was afraid she might collapse again. Her tortured eyes seemed fixed on some inner vision.
“Mrs. McClure?” Tom said gently. “Do you really want me to get all my information from Troy Shackleford? Why don’t you tell me your side of it?”
For a second he didn’t think the bluff would work. Then she nodded, and Merck groaned.
In Tom’s office, Natalie sat stiffly in a hard wooden chair, her mink coat drawn close around her, and stared at the whirring tape recorder on the desk. Sunlight through the windows bathed her face, giving a touch of warmth and life to bloodless cheeks. Tom watched Natalie while Merck recited the official line: Mrs. McClure didn’t get along with her sister-in-law, she wasn’t happy about her husband’s closeness to Pauline, but she had nothing to do with Pauline’s murder. Puffing himself up in his chair and looking down his nose at Tom, Merck added, “And I’m certain you have no proof that she did, regardless of what you’re hearing from garbage like Shackleford.”
“Pauline wasn’t the only victim,” Tom said. “Her sister Jean was murdered around the same time, probably because she threatened to go to the police. Another woman was also killed. We think it was Pauline’s niece Amy, and she might have been killed because she knew too much. A few days ago, Shackleford’s pal Rudy O’Dell was murdered, probably for the same reason. Somebody tried to kill Pauline’s niece Holly and her friend, Dr. Goddard. All because, years ago, someone was angry at Pauline.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting,” Merck said, “that my client murdered three women and is now running around the countryside hunting people down like a savage.”
Natalie whimpered and brought a hand to her mouth.
Tom concentrated on her. “Here’s what I think happened. Your husband had an affair with Pauline. Ed was in love with her, and he would have left you for her. Left you with two sons to raise while he went off to indulge his romantic fantasies with Pauline.”
“This is cruel,” Merck said. “You have no right—”
“She didn’t even want him,” Natalie broke in. “She didn’t love him, but he wouldn’t stay away from her.”
“Natalie,” Merck said, his voice heavy with warning.
Agitated now, Natalie blurted, “Why do men do things like that? He humiliated himself. He made a fool of me. Our sons knew about it, but he didn’t care whether they respected him or not.”
“You must have been very angry at him,” Tom said. “And at Pauline.”
“I hated her.”
“That’s enough now.” Merck placed a hand on her arm.
Tom pushed on, “She was destroying your marriage. As long as Pauline was around, he’d never belong to you again.”
Natalie bowed her head.
“So,” Tom said, “you decided to get rid of her. And you knew somebody else who hated her because she was interfering in his life. Did you pay Troy Shackleford to kill Pauline?”
“Don’t answer that,” Merck told her.
Natalie was back in her private world, her eyes focused on a scene only she could see. “I was desperate. I had to get her out of our lives.”
Merck shook his head. “Natalie,” he said with weary resignation, “I am strongly advising you not to say anything more.”
Shut up, damn it. Natalie was on the verge of spilling everything, and Tom wanted to gag Merck to keep him quiet. “People do extreme things when they’re desperate,” Tom said. “That’s understandable.”
Natalie’s eyes filled with tears. “I came to my senses, though. I’d gone a little crazy, I knew it was wrong, and I told him I’d changed my mind.”
“What?” Tom said.
“I told him not to kill her.”
“You hired Shackleford to kill Pauline, but you changed your mind?”
“I told him the money didn’t matter, he could keep the money, but I didn’t want him to hurt her.” Natalie’s voice rose to a wail. “But he did it anyway. I told him not to, but he killed her anyway.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
With half his jaw numbed by Novocaine, Sheriff Willingham made Tom think of a stroke victim, speaking indistinctly out of one side of his mouth while the other remained slack and motionless. “I can’t even go to the dentis’ wi’out all hell breakin’ loose aroun’ here.” Pacing Tom’s office, Willingham jammed fingers against his numb left cheek as if he could force feeling back into i
t. “You planned ’is, didn’ you? So I wouldn’ be here.”
Tom, leaning against his desk, pretended surprise. “It just worked out this way.”
“Like hell.” Willingham dropped into the chair where Natalie McClure had sat not long before. “She won’ be convicted. She had a momen’ of weakness, ’a’s all. Didn’ follow ’hrough.”
“She confessed to hiring Shackleford to do it,” Tom said. “Money changed hands. And Pauline ended up dead.” Willingham started to interrupt, but Tom cut him off. “She’s the prosecutor’s problem now. He’s setting up a quick arraignment. He’ll be asking for a high bail, but the McClures can manage it. She’ll stay in the holding cell at the courthouse till then. I don’t want her in the jail with the Shacklefords. We can’t take any chances on them intimidating her.”
“Rober’ McClure’s gonna have a fi,” Willingham said.
“I don’t imagine her husband’s going to be too happy, either. He’s teaching in Blacksburg today, but Merck’s probably already let him know.” Tom had wondered why Ed McClure wasn’t with Natalie when she came in for questioning. His guess was that she hadn’t told Ed about it.
“Pauline never meant to hur’ a soul,” Willingham muttered. Sighing, he gazed into space as if he were replaying a scene from long ago in his head. “But she hur’ so many people. I tried and tried to tell your dad to stay away from her—”
“I’m going to talk to Shackleford now,” Tom broke in. He still wasn’t sure what to believe about his father and Pauline, he hadn’t had a quiet minute to think over what Durham had told him, and he’d be damned if he’d stay here and listen to Willingham talk about them. He pushed away from the desk and headed for the door, speaking without looking back. “We’ll be in the conference room if you want to sit in.”
***
Shackleford seemed subdued, perhaps humbled by a night in jail and the knowledge that Natalie McClure had been arrested and charged and had already signed a statement. He took a chair facing Tom across the conference table. Under the merciless fluorescent light, every line in Shackleford’s face looked like an etching in stone and the stubble on his face was more gray than black.
Willingham sat at one end of the table, out of Shackleford’s direct sight. Tom hoped the sheriff would stay quiet.
When Brandon placed a Styrofoam cup of coffee—lukewarm, on Tom’s orders—before Shackleford, he lifted it with his cuffed hands, brought it to his mouth for a sip, set it down with a grimace. Brandon, standing guard behind the prisoner, grinned at Tom.
“Where’s my lawyer?” Shackleford demanded.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the court to appoint one,” Tom said. “Unless you want a public defender.”
“I’ve got money to pay a good lawyer. My mother’s had time to find one by now.”
“Your mother says she’s called everybody, and nobody’s willing to take your case. You see, they all know the court wouldn’t allow them to keep your money because it’s proceeds from illegal activity. Besides, the prosecutor’s asking the court to freeze your assets, and Buddy’s and Rose’s. So you don’t have a cent to pay an attorney.”
“Shit.” Anger and frustration stewed in Shackleford’s face.
“Like I said, we can get one of the public defenders to represent you. I don’t think either of them’s ever handled a murder case, so they’ll probably be fighting for the chance to get the experience.”
“I don’t want no snot-nosed little kid straight out of some backwater law school.” Shackleford shoved his cup away. Coffee sloshed onto the table.
“All right then,” Tom said, “you’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Meanwhile, I think it’ll be in your best interests to answer a few questions.”
Shackleford glowered at him with the helpless hostility of a cornered animal.
“I’ve heard Natalie McClure’s side of the story,” Tom said. “She says she paid you to kill Pauline, then decided not to follow through. But you went ahead. You took money from Natalie to commit a murder, and you did, in fact, murder Pauline.”
“I never killed nobody. You can’t prove I did.”
“Now, come on, Troy. If a jury compares your story to Natalie’s, who do you think they’ll believe? Why would a woman like Natalie McClure, with everything in the world to lose, confess to hiring a hit man if she didn’t do it?”
“I’m not a hit man, damn it!” Shackleford half-rose, but at the touch of Brandon’s hands on his shoulders he dropped back into the chair.
“Did you take money from Natalie McClure to kill Pauline?” Tom persisted. “Did she tell you she wanted Pauline dead?”
Shackleford scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah. Is that what you want to hear? She told me she wanted me to kill Pauline for her. But I never intended to. I took the money—why wouldn’t I? Who’s she gonna complain to if she never gets what she paid for? The Better Business Bureau? And when Pauline disappeared, yeah, I let Natalie think I did it. But I didn’t.”
For the briefest moment the passion in Shackleford’s plea made Tom wonder whether the man could be telling the truth.
Tom was about to press on when the door opened and Dennis Murray stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I talk to you for a second?”
When Tom joined him in the hallway, Dennis said, “I just found out something that might shed some new light. I heard from the cops in South Carolina who checked out that private mailbox that’s rented in Amy’s name.”
“And?” Tom’s heartbeat kicked into high gear.
“It’s billed to somebody else, the name doesn’t mean anything to me, but the bills go to a post office box in Washington, D.C. All the mail that comes into the South Carolina address is remailed to the Washington address. And several times a year something comes in from Washington to be remailed with the South Carolina postmark.”
“Oh, man.” Tom clapped a hand to his forehead. “And who do we know who lives right across the Potomac from Washington?”
Mary Lee.
Chapter Forty
Tom sent Shackleford back to the jail, collected his notes from every interview he’d conducted through the day before, and returned to the conference room with Willingham, Brandon, and Dennis.
“Let’s look at the whole picture,” Tom said. “Natalie McClure admits she hired Troy to kill Pauline, but he claims he took Natalie’s money then didn’t do the deed.”
Willingham snorted. “Likely story.”
“Let’s suppose he’s telling the truth for once in his life.”
“Aw, come on, Tom,” Willingham said.
“Just consider it. If he didn’t kill the women, he knows who did. And I’d stake my life on him and O’Dell being the ones who got rid of the bodies. What did O’Dell’s mother say?” Tom opened the folder of notes and sifted through the sheets. “Here. On the night Pauline disappeared, Rudy came home hours later than usual and told his mother Pauline was dead—and the girl too. He said Troy, quote, made him do something horrible, unquote. But he wouldn’t tell his mother what.”
“Assuming Shackleford didn’t do the murders,” Dennis said, “why would he get involved at all? Did he care enough about anybody to dump the bodies for them?”
“Not likely,” Tom said. “But he might have done it for money. The only people in Pauline’s life who had the money to buy that kind of cooperation were the McClures and Mary Lee. Now that we know about the post office box, I’m leaning toward Mary Lee.”
“My lord, Tom,” Willingham said. “You think the girl killed her own mother?”
“That sort of thing has been known to happen,” Tom said. “If she killed Amy too, that explains why she would write to Holly and to Amy’s parents, pretending to be Amy, making the whole family think Amy’s alive.”
Brandon and Dennis both nodded.
“We don’t know whether Mary Lee’s the one renting that P.O. box in Washington,” Willingham said. “And we won’t know for sur
e unless we force the Postal Service to tell us. We’d have to go through the U.S. Attorney up there for a warrant.”
“It all fits,” Tom said. He let his imagination run loose, pictured the very reserved woman he’d met in a lavish McLean house sinking an ax into her mother’s skull. Not an easy image to conjure, but anybody was capable of anything, given enough motivation. “She got Shackleford and O’Dell to hide the bodies, and she left for college the same night and pretended she’d actually left a day earlier. Nobody ever doubted her story. I think my father accepted it at face value. I haven’t found anything in the old file to make me think he suspected Mary Lee.”
“Well, maybe there’s a reason,” Willingham said. “He was a better judge of people than you are, and he knew she was innocent.”
Or he was predisposed to be blindly protective of his lover’s daughter. “If Mary Lee’s writing letters, pretending to be Amy, that means she knows Amy’s dead. How would she know if she wasn’t involved in the killing? And why would she conceal Amy’s death?”
“This is pure guesswork,” Willingham said. “Meanwhile, we’ve got a McClure locked up for the same murders you’re trying to pin on Mary Lee.”
“Natalie McClure’s guilty of conspiracy to commit murder, at the very least,” Tom said. “Her confession doesn’t mean we have to close our minds to other possibilities.” Before the sheriff could interrupt again, Tom went on, “Ed McClure had a reason to be furious at Pauline, and he had the money to pay Shackleford for disposing of the bodies. If he’s Mary Lee’s real father, and Mary Lee knows it, she might protect him.”
“Now you’re calling Reed Durham a liar?” Willingham said. “He told you the girl was conceived by artificial insemination.”
“That’s what Pauline told him. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”
Willingham threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Mary Lee would’ve been upset,” Brandon said, “if she found out her real father was some stranger who jerked off in a cup.”
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