by Carolyn Hart
I held out my hands. I missed the tennis ball on her first try. The second time I caught it. A cord was taped to the ball. Swiftly, I pulled hand over hand and the cord lifted the rope ladder she’d retrieved from the Boy Scout troop’s storeroom in the church. I placed the hooks over the sill.
Kathleen wasn’t even breathing hard when she climbed through the window to join me.
“Well done,” I praised.
“I did a rope course last summer.” She spoke softly. She glanced about, with one furtive look toward the door, and strode to the chief’s desk. She slipped into his chair. In a moment the screen was bright.
I pointed at a little picture on the screen. “That one.“
Kathleen clicked, found a file for Murdoch, and in a moment we were looking at a list that included interviews with Mrs. Murdoch, Kirby Murdoch, Kathleen Abbott, Father Bill Abbott, and Isaac Franklin.
Kathleen clicked on Isaac Franklin. It was essentially the same information she had gained tonight but there was an addendum:
Det. Sgt. Price took custody Friday of the wheelbarrow from the shed behind St. Mildred’s rectory. Sgt. Price noted cedar needles in a clump of mud on the wheel rim. There are no cedars on church property. Cedars are plentiful in the cemetery, where the victim was found. Moreover, an inspection of the barrow revealed dust balls that might correspond to those found on the decedent’s suit coat. These discoveries suggest that the body was transported to the cemetery in the wheelbarrow from the vicinity of the church. Saturday morning a thorough search will be made of the church grounds and cemetery for any trace of the wheelbarrow’s passage.
Kathleen moaned. “What if the wheelbarrow left tracks when I brought it back?”
I patted her shoulder. “I’ll take care of it in the morning.” I’d be there at first light, but if I missed an impression, suspicion was going to be focused on Father Bill or Kathleen.
The little arrow darted up. The file went away. She opened the file on Father Bill.
Rev. Abbott refuses to reveal the reason for his quarrel on Thursday morning
A door banged open. Footsteps pounded across the floor toward Kathleen. A deep voice shouted, “Hands up.”
Kathleen scrambled out of the chair and raced toward the window.
Holding his gun straight ahead, gripping it with both hands, a policeman thudded after her.
I shoved the chair with all my might. It slammed into him and he fell, the gun clattering to the floor.
Grabbing the gun, I raced to the window, tossed it far into the night.
The policeman scrambled to his feet. He shoved the chair out of his way.
Kathleen reached the ground. I unhooked the rope ladder, dropped it down. I pulled down the window with a resounding smack.
The policeman stopped and gazed in disbelief at the closed window.
I swooped past him to the glowing screen. It would be disastrous if the chief knew we’d been into those files. I didn’t have time to figure out how to turn it off. I reached the back of the machine, saw a dizzying array of cords. Perhaps if I pulled out one . . . or several . . .
The machine made a noise like a fish swallowing.
But it would certainly be apparent that someone had meddled.
Quickly, I reinserted plugs.
Crackle. Hiss. There was an odd sound as if the machine quivered in its depths.
The policeman swung toward the computer. I applauded his bravery as he pelted around the desk, then jerked to a stop. He stared. At nothing, of course.
He looked at the small empty space between the back of the computer and the wall.
I wasn’t there. I stood staring at the computer. I felt true distress when I saw the black emptiness of the screen. I hoped the damage was not irreversible.
The policeman backed away from the empty space, then whirled and pounded toward the door.
I touched the black screen, but there was no flicker of color.
Perhaps I’d done enough for tonight.
CHAPTER 13
Itried to be quiet as a mouse.” Bayroo sat on the petit point ottoman with her knees tucked under her chin. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. I brought breakfast.” She pointed at an enameled tray. “Blueberry muffins and oatmeal. Mom thought I fixed it for me and she didn’t see me add a mug of coffee and an extra bowl and plate. She’s really frazzled. The Spook Bash is today, and she’s already over at the church.” Bayroo grinned. “I’ve been thinking wakeup thoughts, like ‘Auntie Grand, it’s almost eight o’clock and I’m so excited I feel like I could fly if I tried.’ ”
She jumped up, closed her eyes, scrunched her face. “Maybe if I hold my breath and flap my arms.” She lifted from the floor, thumped down. “I jumped,” she confessed, “but I still feel like flying.”
Eight o’clock. Chief Cobb had ordered a search of the church grounds and the cemetery this morning. I swung upright in a panic, rushed to the window. No police cars were parked in the back drive or—I craned to see—the visible portion of the church parking lot.
Bayroo was at my side, her face concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine. But I have to go out soon.” I smiled and gave her a good-morning hug, then held her at arm’s length. “My, you look nice.”
Her cheeks turned bright pink. “Do I look too special?” She fingered the top button on her crisp blue-striped blouse. Navy corduroy slacks were tucked into soft white boots.
I liked Bayroo’s white boots, just as I’d liked the ones I’d seen yesterday. They added a bright note to a cloudy fall day. “You look perfect. Casual but nice.”
She brushed back a swath of fiery-red hair. “I hope Travis doesn’t think I’m a carrottop like that awful Jason Womble. He sits behind me in math, and whenever he has to pass a paper or anything he says, ‘Here you are, Carrottop. Better watch out for monster rabbits.’ ”
I laughed.
Bayroo didn’t join in. Her eyes flashed. “Jason’s mean.”
I reached over, gently touched a flaming curl. “Next time tell him he’s color-blind. You aren’t a carrottop, you’re a Titian redhead, and there are paintings to prove it.”
“Titian?” She looked at me doubtfully.
“Titian,” I said firmly. “The famous Italian painter. He loved to paint models with red-gold hair just like yours. Check out an art book from the library, show Jason what’s what.”
“Titian. Oh, I’ll do it. Thank you, Auntie Grand.” She was at the table, lifting the covers from the cereal bowls. “I brought real cream. Mom says her family always had real cream with oatmeal. And lots of brown sugar.”
We sat down and I continued the family tradition by spooning two tablespoons of brown sugar and pouring a generous splash of cream. “Thanks for bringing up breakfast.” It was an auspicious beginning to the day. Everything was certain to come right. I felt it in my bones. Or would have, had I had bones. In any event, being with Bayroo was a good start.
I poked a chunk of butter into the warm center of the blueberry muffin.
Bayroo clapped her hands. “I love watching a muffin float in the air.”
I was starved. “Not for long.” I finished the muffin. “You look excited.”
Her thin face was eager but uncertain. “I have the cake ready to take to Travis’s house. He said I could come this morning and I want to go there more than anything. But what if he thinks I’m one of those irritating fans who won’t leave celebrities alone? I mean, I don’t really know him and he’s here to visit his aunt and maybe I should just put the cake on the porch with a note. Would that be better? Then he’ll know I really think he’s swell, but I’m not trying to horn in. I mean, he has to know Lucinda and I were hanging out around his aunt’s house. Lucinda was at the other end of the block and I was in the pine grove.” She looked at me earnestly. “Don’t tell Mom. We aren’t supposed to go in the preserve by ourselves—girls, I mean, especially after dark. But it wasn’t quite dark and I had to have somewhere where I could watch for him
and Lucinda didn’t see him because he came from my direction.” She finished in a rush. “I don’t want him to think I’m a hanger-on.”
Bayroo had no inkling how beautiful she was, her red-gold hair shining in the sunlight, her freckled face kind and hopeful, bright and fresh in what were almost certainly her newest casual clothes.
“He’ll think you’re a nice new friend who wants his birthday to be special. It wouldn’t be at all friendly to leave the cake with a note. You march right up to his aunt’s front door and knock on it.” I raised my hand in a fist, pretended to knock. “I promise you it’s the right thing to do.”
“You’re sure?” She looked at me as if to a fount of wisdom.
“Positive.” If only I were as positive of my course this morning.
“Okay. I’ll do it. If I can hide in the preserve when it’s getting dark”—for an instant her eyes were wide with memory that surely wasn’t pleasant, then they shone again with happiness—“I can do anything.” She absently spooned her oatmeal in a dreamy reverie.
I finished my muffin, hurriedly drank coffee, delighting in the bitter undertone of chicory. It was time to go to work. I scarcely gave a thought to my costume. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate. I took a quick peek in one of the catalogs I’d brought from the sewing room and chose a royal-purple velour jacket and slacks with a rose silk blouse and purple scarf. And white boots. No one would see except Bayroo, but a woman has to feel at her best when she sets out to destroy evidence.
———
I went straight to the cemetery. Thursday night we’d followed a gravel path, then crossed the end of the paved church parking lot.
However, we’d trundled over a patch of dirt to reach the pavement near the mausoleum. Last night I’d used a pine bough to erase those tracks. Had I missed any?
The breeze was chilly though the sun shone brightly. I thought of a short white cashmere coat with oversize purple buttons and immediately felt much more comfortable as well as stylish.
Despite a bright blue sky, the cemetery was shadowy beneath the overhanging limbs of sycamores, maples, sweet gums, and Bradford pears. Some leaves still clung, but mounds of red and gold and purplish leaves were banked against headstones by the erratic wind.
Three big cedars lined the path near the mausoleum.
I found a wheelbarrow trail a few feet beyond the spot where we’d left Daryl. Quickly, I smoothed over the narrow furrow, my fingers brushing against cedar needles. I’d just satisfied myself that the area near the mausoleum was clear of wheel tracks when three police cars pulled up and stopped on the other side of the mausoleum.
Hurriedly, I zoomed in ever-widening circles until I reached the fluttering yellow tape that marked the crime scene. So far so good.
Anita Leland and the young man who had helped secure the scene Thursday night led the way. “I’ll check inside the tape. Jake, start outside the tape, look between here and the church. Harry, go fifty yards east, then fifty west.” The search party fanned out, scanning the ground.
Stocky Jake began his search just past the breeze-stirred tape, head down, expression intent. I sped ahead of him. Jake and I spotted a deep gouge in a depression about twenty yards from the markedoff area. The track was on a straight line from the mausoleum to the church parking lot. “Yo,” he shouted. “Found it.”
Immediately Anita and Harry joined him. Anita sighted a line leading to the church parking lot. “Okay, one of us on each side, move slowly, take your time . . .” She stuck small yellow flags on either side of tracks as they were found. The search party took on an Easter-egg-hunt atmosphere, excited shouts erupting as the unmistakable path of the careening barrow was discovered.
I hovered overhead, but there was no opportunity to erase the damning evidence. I’d not worried about the wheelbarrow when Kathleen assured me she’d returned it to the shed, but I hadn’t calculated the path she’d taken when she dashed away from the mausoleum.
Unfortunately, Kathleen had ignored the gravel path and headed straight for the rectory backyard.
Anita’s fair face was flushed with excitement. She hurried across the parking lot. Perhaps most damning of all was the intermittent trail in the rectory backyard leading directly to the shed. Flags sprouted. Anita stood next to the shed and used her cell phone. “Send the crime van. We’ve got a fresh path, clear as can be.”
I envisioned a grim sequence of events: the rectory wheelbarrow tagged in evidence, the wheelbarrow linked to the crime scene, further consideration of the unexplained dust ball laden with cat fur, Father Bill questioned again, now with greater suspicion.
If Kathleen hadn’t flung Daryl’s cell phone into the lake, Chief Cobb would have many more suspects. Walter Carey committed fraud. Irene Chatham stole from the collection plate. Kirby was furious with his father over his treatment of Lily Mendoza. Cynthia Brown was pregnant and desperate. I suspected that Daryl’s secretary knew more than she had revealed about her boss’s departure for the church. But perhaps most significant, last night when I’d talked to Kirby’s lovely Lily, she’d been shocked that his gun was missing.
Where was Kirby’s gun? When had it gone missing?
The windowed alcove overlooked a backyard that would be spectacular in the spring, dogwood and redbuds surrounding a pond with water lilies. A breeze stirred autumn leaves that fluttered to the ground.
Judith Murdoch peered out the window. She wore a black blouse, dark gray slacks, black shoes. She stood stiff and straight.
A barefoot Kirby hunched over his plate at the breakfast-room table. His gray sweatshirt and pants were fuzzy and ragged. A stubble of beard shadowed his face. Uncombed hair bunched in tangles.
He held a mug of coffee, but the Danish on the plate before him was untouched. Red-rimmed eyes stared forlornly at his mother. “Mom, I want to talk to you about Thursday.”
Judith turned to face him. Fear flickered in her eyes, fear and grief and despair. “You were with Lily Thursday night.”
He put down the mug. “Mom, I saw—”
She broke in, her voice harsh. ”Kirby, promise me you’ll tell the police you were with Lily.”
The doorbell rang.
Judith looked toward the hall, wavered on her feet.
Kirby pushed back his chair. “I’ll take care of it, Mom. I’ll take care of everything.” He was at her side, gripping her arm.
The bell pealed again.
Kirby steered his mother to the window seat. “Sit down and rest. I’ll see about it.” He gave a worried backward glance as he hurried into the hallway.
When the door opened, Chief Cobb’s deep voice easily carried to the breakfast room. “Good morning, Kirby. If you have a moment, I have some questions about your movements Thursday.”
Judith pushed to her feet, rushed to the hall.
I followed and stood by the waist-tall Chinese vase near the entry to the living room.
Judith clasped her hands so tightly the fingers blanched. “He’s told you everything he knows. Can’t you leave us alone? We have family coming. We have to plan the funeral. There’s so much to do.”
Kirby glanced from the frowning chief to his mother. “It’s okay, Mom. Go upstairs and rest. I’ll talk to the chief.” Kirby touched her arm. “Please.”
Judith glared at the chief. “Kirby doesn’t know anything about what happened to his father. Nothing.” Her voice was shrill.
The chief rocked back on his heels, his heavy face determined.
“Sorry to intrude, Mrs. Murdoch, but I have a duty to investigate your husband’s murder. He was shot with a twenty-two.” Cobb turned toward Kirby. “You were target-practicing with a twenty-two Thursday afternoon on the river bottom.” It was a statement, not a question.
Kirby jammed a hand through his tangled hair. “Yeah. I shoot most Thursdays. When I finished, I put the gun in the trunk of my car.”
“Where is the gun now?”
Kirby didn’t answer.
Chief Cobb pressed him. “Yes
terday you said it must have been stolen from the trunk of your car.”
“Yeah.” He stared at the floor.
I felt a chill. He was trying not to look at his mother. Kirby thought she’d taken the gun. Why did he suspect her?
The questions came fast.
“What time did you put it in the trunk?”
“About two-thirty.”
“Where was the car between two-thirty and five?”
“Parked in the lot next to my girlfriend’s apartment.”
“Locked?”
Kirby gnawed at his lower lip. He started to speak, stopped, finally spoke. “Yeah. It was locked.”
His mother drew in a sharp breath.
Chief Cobb was somber. “Where were you shortly after five P.M.
Thursday?”
Judith took two quick steps, stood between the chief and her son.
“He was with his girlfriend. He’s already told you.”
“He can tell me again. Here or downtown. This time he can tell me the truth. He was seen outside his father’s office shortly after five o’clock.” Chief Cobb’s gaze was cold. “Your choice, son.”
Kirby swallowed. “Yeah, I was there.”
Judith gave a strangled cry. “You can’t do this. I’ll call our lawyer.”
Chief Cobb’s eyes narrowed. “I’m seeking information, Mrs. Murdoch. I’m not making an accusation. It looks like you think your son had something to do with his father’s death. Are you afraid of what your son is going to say?”
Judith looked tortured. “You’re twisting my words.”
Kirby jammed his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I went to Dad’s office because I had to talk to him.”
“You followed him out of the parking lot?”
Kirby’s face ridged. He took a deep breath. “Yeah. I started after him.” He shot a desperate, grieved look at his mother, moved uneasily on his feet. “Dad drove to the church.” He put out the words with effort. “I waited until he parked. I caught him just outside the church. I told him what a louse he was for getting Lily fired from her job. It was a rotten thing to do. He said he’d make sure she never got another job.”