by Mary Maxwell
“It’s like I already told you,” I explained. “Someone asked me to look into the matter.”
Velma raised one eyebrow. “Was it Abe Waterhouse?”
I shook my head. “Why would you think it was Abe?”
“Because I saw you talking to him last night,” she said. “Out there on Walter’s driveway.”
I quickly flashed back to the previous evening and my chat with Abe. I would’ve noticed Velma if she was out on her porch or in the front yard. And I knew that she’d already left Walter’s before I arrived.
“How’d you know Abe and I talked last night?”
She stiffened her shoulders. “I already told you that; I saw you.”
I suddenly realized one possible explanation for her story based on her favorite hobby.
“Were binoculars involved?” I asked.
Velma blushed. “Possibly.”
“And did you see us from the upstairs bedroom window?”
She smiled. “I’d like to plead the Fifth,” she giggled.
“One more question?” I asked when her bouncy laughter faded into a warm smile.
Velma nodded.
“Any chance you saw other interesting things over at Walter’s with your trusty binoculars?”
Her cheeks flushed red again. “I may have.” She wiggled both eyebrows. “For instance, I saw Abe prowling around over there about thirty minutes before I heard the sirens and saw the police arrive.”
“What was he doing?”
“I saw the little peckerwood leave Walter’s with something wrapped in a towel,” Velma said. “And just before that, I saw four people driving away in Walter’s Cadillac.”
“Do you know who was in the car?”
She shrugged. “No, because my binoculars and I had to go tinkle right about then. I stepped away and didn’t return to the window until I heard loud voices and doors slamming.”
“Voices?”
“Male and female,” Velma said. “I’m pretty certain that one was Walter. And the other sounded like a much younger woman. She was kind of shrill and nasally, with a New York accent.”
“What was Walter saying?”
“Well, I didn’t catch every word,” Velma answered. “And I tried not to listen when he started using vulgarities. But I absolutely remember that he said something about money. Then he was telling somebody to be patient. And then he kept going on about…” She paused, nibbling on one thumbnail. “Oh, it’s right on the tip of my tongue. Walter kept repeating this one word over and over until right before the Cadillac screeched out of the driveway.”
“Do you remember the word?”
She tilted her head to one side, giving me a grim scowl. “That’s what I’m trying to do, Katie. I’m trying to remember what he kept blurting out.”
“Just the one word?”
“Yes,” she said, chewing on the nail again. “And it was…” She sighed and shook her head. “Seems to me it was a person’s name,” Velma muttered. “Because every time Walter shouted the word, some woman yelled his name.”
“Well, give it a moment, Velma.”
She reached for the red plastic cup and took a long drink. “It’s not coming, Katie. But if I remember it later, I’ll be sure and give you a call.”
“That’s fair.” I smiled. “And the others? You said there were four voices?”
“Yes, and the other two were like nasty pit bulls,” Velma said. “Barking and yowling and shouting orders. ‘Get in there and shut up!’ ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Things like that.”
“Did you tell the police all of this?” I asked.
Velma shook her head. “Not yet. The officer that told me to go back home last night when I went over to Walter’s said that a detective would come talk to me. I guess they’re not in a great big hurry because I haven’t heard a peep out of them at all today.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll be in touch soon.”
Velma sipped from her cup again. “Suppose so,” she said. “I guess when things get hectic, there’s a chance…” She stopped, put down the cup and grinned. “And speaking of busy,” she added, “I saw two different taxi cabs at Walter’s yesterday.”
“That is pretty unusual for Crescent Creek,” I said. “Most folks have their own car.”
“No kidding! That’s why it was so intriguing.”
I asked her if she saw the passengers get out of the cabs.
“My trusty peepers did,” she giggled. “The first one was some young thing all in black. And the one that arrive later was a curvy number wearing a skintight dress and slinky heels.”
I smiled. “Slinky heels?”
“My sister calls them stripper heels,” Velma said. “But I prefer not to judge.”
“Most definitely. Not judging is good.”
“Amen,” Velma agreed.
“Did you know either of the women?”
She smirked. “Well, I know it wasn’t Alma Cassidy, the nice lady that cleans for Walter. She drove off a few minutes before the first cab arrived.”
“Okay, but did you recognize them by any chance?”
Velma shook her head. “No,” she said. “From my window, I couldn’t get a good look at either of their faces. And I was already running late to go out for a romp with Otis.” Her face radiated boundless joy. “You haven’t met him yet, have you?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I don’t even know who that is.”
The blissful expression on her face was sweet. I watched as her eyes closed briefly before she turned and looked at me again.
“Otis is my new puppy,” she said. “The cutest little beagle in the world. He’ll be ten months tomorrow, and he’s the new love of my life!”
“How nice! I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Well, you’ll have to,” Velma said. “It’s his naptime. He won’t be up for an hour or so.”
“Another visit then,” I said. “Can we get back to yesterday?”
Velma nodded silently.
“Did you possibly catch a glimpse of the cab later when Walter’s visitors left?” I asked. “Were you able to see who was in the backseat?”
She shrugged. “Sorry, but no. I take Otis the opposite direction on Evergreen. We go down to Chippewa and then over to Somerset and then we loop right around that big pond over there and…” She stopped and snickered. “Oh, what am I rambling on about? You don’t need to know where I walk Otis.”
“But that explains why you didn’t see who was in the taxi.”
“Yes, indeed,” Velma said. “I’ll do a better job next time, okay?”
“If there is a next time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think he’s a goner?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “It’s like everything else in life; time will tell.”
CHAPTER 22
After leaving Velma Short’s house and dropping a handful of catering invoices in the mail, I’d just pulled away from the post office when Trent called.
“Sorry to bother you at the book fair,” he said. “But I’ve got a question.”
“No worries,” I said. “My sister’s actually watching the booth for bit. I’m out running errands and taking care of Sky High business.”
“How’s Liv doing?” he asked.
“She’s fine as long as you don’t mention Captain Underpants.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I said. “It’s a book series for kids. What did you want to ask me?”
“Does the name Annabeth Summerfield ring a bell?”
“That’s Nigel’s sister.”
“Who’s that?”
I reminded Trent that we’d talked about Nigel the day before in Walter Shipp’s kitchen.
“Yeah?” He sounded unconvinced. “I don’t recall that, to be honest. I’ve been a little fuzzy the past couple of days.”
“Maybe it was the cold pills,” I suggested. “You told me that you’d taken quite a few.”
He dismissed the idea with a sq
uelchy grumble. “How about you refresh my memory, Katie? Who’s this Nigel guy?”
I took a breath and told him to hold while I pulled into the parking lot at Tipton’s Liquor Mart. “I don’t want to be distracted while I drive,” I said.
He laughed. “I distract you, huh?”
“Don’t go there,” I warned. “There’s some traffic on Bloomfield and I want to concentrate while we talk.”
I grabbed the first open space, put the car in park and launched into a quick account of what I’d learned from Nigel. I explained once again the connection between Nigel’s father and Walter Shipp. I described the hiking accident in Whetstone Gulf. And then I covered the accusations that Nigel and his sister had made about Walter’s role in their father’s death and the embezzlement of his millions. When I finished, Trent asked me if I believed Nigel.
“Yeah,” I said. “I saw the look in the guy’s eyes when he told me about his father’s accident. I also did some preliminary checking of my own and the story looks legit.”
Trent coughed and blew his nose. “Why do these things always seem to happen when I feel like crap?”
“Cold getting worse?”
“I’ll be okay,” he said, coughing again. “I find it really interesting that Walter Shipp’s colorful past could be responsible for his disappearance.”
“Or his colorful present,” I said.
Trent asked me what I meant by the comment.
“The Ponzi scheme. I’ve been talking to a few people around town and it seems that Walter scammed several locals with his most recent swindle.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Depends on the individual,” I said. “I just heard a few minutes ago that Cabot and Sheila McCutcheon lost around two-hundred thousand.”
“That’s certainly motive for murder,” said Trent.
I felt a chill. “Why’d you say that?” I asked. “Did you find Walter’s body?”
“No, but it sounds like more than one person has motive to off the guy.”
I heard a horn and glanced over. Diane Sneed was waving at me from the passenger seat of her husband’s pickup. I smiled and gave her a nod.
“What was that?” Trent said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, you did. You muttered something under your breath.”
“I don’t know. I just saw Phil and Diane Sneed.”
“Yeah?”
“What’re those lovebirds up to?” Trent snickered. “I think it’s pretty amusing that they got married to one another again. Guess the divorce was kind of like a five-year vacation or something.”
I watched Phil’s truck turn out of the parking lot and head south on Bloomfield. When it disappeared around a bend in the road, I asked Trent to stop breathing so heavily into the phone.
“I can’t help it, Katie!” he whined. “I’ve got a cold.”
“I know! I’m just teasing.”
He grumbled a colorful retort. Then he said, “Okay, let’s get back to Annabeth Summerfield?”
“Like I said, that’s Nigel’s sister. Why are you asking about her?”
“Because we got the results from the FBI on the blood we found at Shipp’s place,” he explained. “It belongs to the Summerfield girl.”
“Annabeth’s blood was in Walter’s kitchen?”
“Yep,” Trent said. “It was hers, but we didn’t find any type of weapon.”
“And you’re absolutely certain?”
He confirmed that the FBI had processed the samples taken from the floor in Walter Shipp’s kitchen. “And we got her prints, too,” Trent added. “They were everywhere; upstairs in his office, the kitchen cabinets, both bedrooms on the main floor, the study, the living room. It appears that she was looking for something, don’t you think?”
“And she was in CODIS?”
“Yeah,” Trent answered. “And get this; her prints and DNA are in the database because she was arrested once for breaking into Walter’s townhouse when he still lived in New York City.”
“Wow! I did not see that one coming.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t really explain it right now,” I said. “But Nigel seems so…” His face flashed in my mind: tousled blond hair, trimmed beard, translucent green eyes. “He seems so honest somehow,” I added. “Despite the fact that he and his sister were planning to blackmail Walter into confessing to their father’s murder. I think they’d spent so many years trying to find him that they became desperate and the death threat somehow made sense.”
“Blackmail, Katie?” Trent said. “And murder? Are you telling me that Annabeth and her brother are responsible for the anonymous letter left in Walter’s mailbox?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And were you going to share that with me at some point?”
“Yes, Trent. But I didn’t want to say anything until I’d had a chance to check on a few more things first.”
“And how’s that going?”
“Well, the situation has obviously taken a different turn now,” I answered. “What with Walter’s disappearance and Annabeth’s blood and fingerprints being found at the scene.”
“See, Katie? That’s what’s wrong with you trying to be some kind of part-time PI. You start sticking your nose here and there, talking to people and learning all of these significant things, but then you don’t circle back and share it with the police.”
“Trent? Can we please save that conversation for another time? You know that I would’ve told you everything as soon as I finished tying up a few loose ends.”
He grunted. “Just don’t muck up our investigation, Katie.”
“You’ve got my word,” I said. “Now, what about other prints?”
“At Walter’s?”
“Yes, at Walter’s. Did you find other fingerprints that might be helpful?”
He laughed again. “A gazillion. Most of them aren’t in the system. And the rest belong to local residents who happen to be in the database for a variety of non-criminal reasons.”
“Like who?”
“Oh, Abe Waterhouse,” Trent said. “And that bird watcher who lives next door to Walter.”
“That’s Velma Short.”
“Indeed it is. She’s in CODIS because she was a volunteer at the middle school for a few years. They always do background checks and a full set of fingerprints no matter what.”
“Who else?” I asked.
“There was one more name that surprised me,” Trent said. “I didn’t realize that she and Walter were friendly.”
“Was it Ivy Minkler?”
“The librarian? No, they weren’t her prints.”
“Okay,” I said. “Who do they belong to?”
“You might not believe this, but…” Trent stopped and mumbled something. “Can you hold for a sec? I need to take this other call.”
While I listened to gusts of muffled static, my mind rummaged through a short list of local residents that I thought might have visited the Shipp residence. The first three were obvious: Toby Bunker, a young guy that took care of the lawn and gardens; Ashleigh Phelps, a Sky High regular who consulted with Walter on his art collection; and Shep Carson, president of a local bank and one of Walter’s drinking buddies.
I was still thinking of other possible suspects when Trent came back on the line, answered my pending question about fingerprints and left me momentarily speechless.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“One-hundred percent!” Trent snickered with satisfaction. “What do you think about that, Katie?”
“I’m actually really stunned. I wasn’t aware that she knew Walter well enough to visit his home. And I never would’ve suspected that she’d be capable of kidnapping the silly schmuck.”
“Or killing him,” Trent added.
CHAPTER 23
Following a quick call to check on my sister at the book fair, I dialed the Matchstick Café. Edie Fuller answered with her cheerful trademark lilt.
&nb
sp; “This is Matchstick!” she announced. “How can I help you?”
“Edie? It’s Kate Reed from Sky High Pies.”
“Oh, Kate! How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. You doing okay?”
“Can’t complain,” she said. “And if I do, it doesn’t get me anywhere.”
We chatted briefly about Edie’s husband, a truck driver named Grant, and their two Jack Russell terriers, Mickey and Minnie. Then I asked if she remembered a patron who was in the restaurant the previous evening.
“He’s a fairly handsome guy,” I explained. “Blond hair and a trimmed beard with a New York accent. He would’ve been waiting for someone, but she never showed.”
Edie laughed. “Oh, you’re talking about Nigel, right?”
I wasn’t surprised that she knew the name. Edie was one of the most gregarious people in Crescent Creek. A lively chatterbox with bright red lips, a short brunette bob and more energy than a nuclear power plant, she’d worked the front desk at Matchstick Café since her brother and his girlfriend opened the restaurant several years earlier. With her easy wit, warm smile and flawless memory, she was ideally suited to greet diners, juggle reservations and soothe the staff’s frazzled nerves on particularly busy nights.
“That’s the guy,” I said. “Nigel Summerfield. Was he there around seven o’clock?”
“He sure was,” she said confidently. “He came in, told me his sister was meeting him for dinner and then nursed a beer at the bar for about an hour and a half before giving up. I felt horrible for the guy because he got more and more upset as the time passed.”
“Sounds like you two had quite a chat then.”
Edie giggled again. “Not much of one,” she said. “But I’m a very good judge of character. I could just tell that he’s quite the catch. Kind of hard to believe that he’s not married.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “Do you remember what time he arrived and when he left?”
“Um, he got here about six-fifteen. And I remember that distinctly because Yvette Plumb and her no-good husband were in my face about the dessert selection on the menu.”