by Carolyn Hart
Irene’s lips moved, but no words came. She opened the door with a shaking hand. She led the way into the frowsy living room, gestured at an easy chair. She sank onto the divan, clutching her purse and coat, and stared at me with desperate eyes. “Father Bill promised he wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Father Abbott has not discussed you in any manner with the— uh—with us.” I must remember that I represented Adelaide’s finest.
“Our information came from Daryl Murdoch’s cell phone.” Indeed it had. “You recall the photographs he took?”
Irene wrapped her arms tightly across her front.
“You do recall?” I imitated the chief, bent forward, looking stern. “Two photographs. In one, you held the collection plate. In the second, you took money and stuffed it into the pocket of your Altar Guild smock.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She took shallow breaths.
“Come, come.” I doubted my response exemplified effective interrogative technique. I tried again. With a glower. “Mrs. Chatham, you were photographed stealing money from the collection plate. This would not be a serious matter from the police standpoint except for the fact that Father Abbott and Mr. Murdoch quarreled. Father Abbott has refused to explain the reason to the police, saying only that it is a parish matter which must be kept confidential.”
Watery brown eyes regarded me sullenly.
I didn’t mince words. “Father Abbott’s silence has made him a prime suspect in the murder investigation.”
Something flickered in Irene’s eyes. Hope? Relief? “I don’t know anything about a disagreement between Father Bill and Daryl. Daryl was”—her voice shook—“always complaining about something at church.” Her gaze slid away, sly as a fox easing into a chicken house.
Craven self-interest should never come as a surprise, but I’d been confident I could easily prove Father Bill’s lack of motive and make Chief Cobb realize that the answer to Daryl’s murder didn’t lie in the church.
Perhaps it did.
I looked at Irene in a different, more searching light. Her expression was vacuous. Deliberately so? “Mrs. Chatham, the police are not interested in internal matters at St. Mildred’s. They—we—are investigating a murder. If you explained that Father Abbott was defending you and not engaged in a personal quarrel with Mr. Murdoch, it would direct the investigation away from Father Abbott.”
The fingers of one hand plucked at the collar of her coat. Irene lifted her eyes, watched me carefully. “Those pictures make it look bad, but it wasn’t that way. I’d put money in the plate earlier and then I realized I had to pay some bills and I took it back.” Her voice was stronger as she spoke, realization dawning that no one could prove otherwise. Daryl was dead. “That’s all there was to it. But Daryl wouldn’t listen and he went around to Father Bill and told lies about me, called me a thief.”
“If you don’t speak out, tell the truth, Father Abbott may be arrested.”
Surely she would explain when she understood the seriousness of his situation.
Irene’s sandy lashes fluttered. She stared at the floor, didn’t say a word.
I waited.
She jumped to her feet. “I’ve got things to do. I was on my way out. I’m sorry I can’t help.”
I stood and blocked her way. “Where were you Thursday between five and seven P.M?”
Panic flared in her face. “I didn’t even—” She clapped a hand to her lips.
“What didn’t you do?” My tone was sharp.
“Nothing. I was here. I was here the whole time.” She shrugged into her coat, took a step toward the door. “You can’t prove I wasn’t.”
Irene Chatham was terrified and in her fear was willing to say and do anything to protect herself.
Why?
If I could find the answer, I might know everything I needed to know about Daryl Murdoch’s murder.
I moved ahead of her to the door. “We’ll be back in touch, Mrs.
Chatham.” As soon as I could figure out how to set Chief Cobb on her trail.
She slammed the door behind us, clattered down the front steps.
She was almost running to reach her car, a shabby green coupé.
I was glad that she didn’t take time to realize there wasn’t a police car parked on the street and that Officer Loy was no longer behind her, but sitting beside her as the car lurched around the corner.
Irene drove too fast, lurching across Main as the light turned red.
She ran another red light and careened around corners. On the outskirts of town, she pushed even harder on the gas pedal. The car swooped up and down hills, squealed around curves. We’d gone perhaps ten miles from Adelaide when a billboard on the right announced:
Buckaroo Casino
Fun and Money
Money, Money, Money for Every Honey
The billboard sparkled with gold coins spewing from a slot machine, piling into a glistening mound.
———
As she found a parking space in a crowded lot, I craned for a better view of the low-slung stucco building with a crimson neon outline of a slot machine on the near wall.
Irene slammed out of the car and hurried in stumbling eager steps up the broad cement walk with images of green shamrocks and diamond rings. She pushed through the door, turned immediately to her right. She stood in a short line, pushed over the money for a bag full of change.
The huge crowded room was dimly lit except for the flash of neon.
Music blared loud enough to hurt my ears. An electric guitar echoed, drums thumped, and a hoarse-voiced man shouted lyrics. Clouds of cigarette smoke turned the dim air dusky.
Irene dashed to a line of slot machines, began to feed quarters.
She yanked the lever, watched, stuffed in another coin. One quarter after another. Squeals of excitement sounded from a buxom blonde at a nearby slot machine. A croupier’s call rose above the mutter of voices.
I’d obviously returned to an Oklahoma quite different from the one I’d departed. If anyone had told me, a lifetime ago, that there would be a gambling casino right outside Adelaide, I would have said, “When little green men arrive from Mars.”
Perhaps that had happened, too.
Now I understood why Irene Chatham was a thief. All I needed to know was whether she was a murderer, too.
———
Jack gave an eager snuffle. I rubbed behind a black-and-tan ear. “Told you I’d come back, boy.” I untied the rope from the railing, gave a tug. He obediently trotted alongside. We were almost to the street when a woman’s voice cried out, “Shelly, look at that dog. Look at his rope. It’s up in the air as if someone’s holding it.”
Behind a well-kept white picket fence, a woman bent toward the ground. A silver-haired woman with bright eyes pointed toward Jack.
“That dog’s rope is straight out like a comet’s tail.”
I dropped the rope.
A young woman, balancing a baby on one hip, rose from picking up a pacifier. The baby wailed. “Every time he spits it out, he wants it back. That rope’s on the ground, Mama.”
“It was in the air.” Her voice was insistent.
I darted behind an oak, appeared, then strolled out. I picked up the rope and smiled at the neighbors. “Good morning.”
The older woman continued to look puzzled.
The young mother spoke over the baby’s cry. “Are you taking that dog? Thank Heaven.”
The young mother’s response was more appropriate than she would ever realize.
She patted the baby’s back. “I’ve called the city a bunch of times to complain about how the Dickersons treat him. He’s a stray and they kept him, but half the time they don’t put any food out. I’ve been giving him kibble and water. You can’t talk to the Dickersons.” Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled rotten fish. “Mostly they’re drunk, both of them, and yelling so much in the middle of the night it wakes Tommy up.” She gave the baby a swift kiss. Then she looked distressed.
Jack gave a little yip.
“Absolutely not. He’s on his way to a new home.” I hoped Kathleen was up to a new family member. “Though”—I was realizing I had some challenges facing me—“I wonder if you could help out. We have volunteers who take care of dogs while we find a new home. It’s a new program. But I don’t have time to get any dog food. I’m on duty.” Much as I wanted to help Jack, I had no time to shop. “Could you possibly give me enough kibble to take care of him for a couple of days?”
The older woman nodded. “Of course. I’ll dash in and get some.”
The young mother jounced the wailing baby on her hip. “Did you leave them a notice?”
My rescue mission was getting ever more complicated. I tried to appear chagrined, which wasn’t difficult. “I didn’t have a notice with me. If you would have some paper, perhaps . . .”
She called after her mother. “Bring out a pen and paper, Mama.”
In only a moment, I was jotting in capital letters on an 8-by-10 white notecard:
NOTICE OF ANIMAL RESCUE
Neglect of a domestic dog is prohibited in Sect. 42, Para. 12 of the Adelaide City Statutes. Under the authority vested in me as a sworn officer of the law, I herewith and hereby take custody of one malnourished mixed breed dog from the front porch at
I glanced toward the house.
817 Whitlock Street. Inquiry may be made at the Adelaide Police Station.
Signed this 28th day of October.
I wrote Officer M. Loy with a flourish.
I doubted the Dickersons would rush to call the police. I used the tape provided by my new friends to attach the message to the front door of Jack’s former residence. As I passed by the picket fence, I paused. “We had a call out here on Thursday. A car ran the stop sign”—I pointed toward the corner—“and almost hit a bicyclist. By the time we got here, there was no trace of the car and the rider was too upset to give us a good description. I don’t suppose either of you”—I looked inquiring—“happened to be outside around five o’clock Thursday evening? It was cold and windy.”
The older woman clapped her hands. “I’ll bet it was Irene Chatham. She’s a hazard behind the wheel. I get off work at four-thirty and I get home about a quarter to five. She almost hit me coming out of her drive.” She pointed at Irene’s house. ”I’ll bet she ran right through that stop sign.”
I got the particulars, the make and year and color of her car, then tucked the bag of food under one arm, took Jack’s rope, and off we went. I hoped it didn’t occur to the bungalow’s residents to wonder why Officer Loy was afoot. I didn’t look back.
We’d gone only a few steps when I heard that familiar rumble.
“Precepts—”
I finished for Wiggins, “Three and Four.”
Jack gave an eager snuffle, came up on his back legs, his front paws in the air.
“Good fellow.” Wiggins spoke with delight.
Jack’s chin went up and I knew Wiggins was stroking his throat.
Jack dropped down.
A genial harrumph. “Although becoming visible is best avoided, you handled this chap’s rescue very nicely. The official notice was well done. There will be no cause for the observers to suspect that anything unusual has occurred. However”—a heavy sigh—“the episode last night at the police station was highly irregular. Awkward. A blot upon the bright shield of the department.”
I was puzzled. “The police department? I thought the policeman did as well as could be expected.”
”Not a blot on the police department.” Now Wiggins was roused. “A blot on the fine reputation of the Department of Good Intentions.”
“Wiggins.” I handed him the leash. “If I’ve failed, I’ll resign at once.“
The leash was back in my hand immediately. Just as I expected, Wiggins would never desert Jack and I was taking him to a new and good home. I had a sudden picture of Wiggins as a little boy, minus the walrus mustache, a hound eagerly licking his face as he laughed in delight.
“Don’t be hasty, Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was a bit farther away. “In the face of adversity, you protected Kathleen last night. Moreover, Kathleen is growing in courage. Keep up the good work.”
Jack’s head turned, and I knew he was watching Wiggins depart.
I tugged on the leash. “Jack, old buddy, let’s go faster.”
He answered with a little woof.
When we reached the church, Jack and I moved from tree to tree because there were a half-dozen cars parked behind the rectory and more cars and pickups in the church parking lot. Teenage boys were hefting bales of hay and monster pumpkins. Girls giggled and held the door to the parish hall. I was glad Kathleen was occupied with setting up for the Spook Bash.
As soon as Jack and I were safely on the porch, I disappeared. In the kitchen, I found some plastic bowls, filled one with water, the other with a small portion of kibble, brought them to the porch. Jack noisily drank, then devoured the food. He looked up expectantly.
I smoothed the top of his head. “I know you’re still hungry. But we’d better start off slow.”
Jack stared for a moment more, then wagged his tail, as if to say, Sure thing, and began to explore the porch. I stepped back into the kitchen and printed on the message blackboard:
Stray dog in need of a good home. Name: Jack. Will bring good fortune. BR
I was sure of the latter. If it weren’t for Jack, I wouldn’t know one important fact: Irene Chatham had lied when she claimed to be home from 5 to 7 P.M. Thursday evening. In fact, she’d screeched from her driveway in a tearing hurry at about a quarter to five. I was almost sure I knew where she was going, but I needed proof. I suspected that Murdoch had called Irene from his office, intending to force a showdown with her and the rector, and Murdoch’s secretary was aware of that call. She was the kind of secretary who always knew what the boss was doing.
I found the telephone directory. In only a moment I had the address for Daryl Murdoch’s secretary. I checked the parish directory.
Patricia Haskins was also a communicant of St. Mildred’s. I found that very interesting, but not, given my speculations, surprising.
———
The stucco apartment building was built around a patio with a pool and benches. I checked the mailboxes near the office. A neatly printed card in 307 read: Patricia Haskins.
I reappeared when I stood outside her door. The wooden shutters were closed in the front window. I knocked. No answer. I looked around, saw no one, disappeared, and wafted inside.
The living room was exquisitely clean, the walls pale blue, the overstuffed furniture in soft white faux leather. A tiger-striped cat on a cushion near the kitchen lifted his head, studied me with enigmatic golden eyes. I had no doubt he saw me.
I knelt, smoothed silky fur. “Nobody home?”
The cat yawned, revealing two sharp incisors and a pink tongue.
I popped up, made a circuit of the living room. No dust. No muss.
No casual disarray. One wall of bookshelves held biographies, books on bridge, and Book-Of-The-Month club titles. On another wall were three framed Edward Hopper prints.
A small walnut desk sat in one corner. I found her checkbook in the right-hand drawer and a box of checks as well as stubs neatly bound with rubber bands. I hunted for an engagement calendar, found an address book. There was an entry for Irene Chatham. It was a link, but this was a small town. I needed more.
The bedroom yielded nothing of interest but a collection of family pictures in neat rows atop a bookcase and on a dresser. It was cheerful to see that the rather formal Mrs. Haskins was also a mother and grandmother. In a Christmas scene, her eyes soft, her smile beatific, she was reaching out to touch the dark curls of a chubby little girl.
The kitchen was immaculate. A neat white cardboard bakery box was open. It held three dozen sugar cookies shaped like pumpkins with big chocol
ate eyes and curlicues of orange frosting. I edged one out, ate it neatly. I was turning to go when I saw the large wall calendar with notations in several squares. And yes, she’d marked this Saturday:
8 A.M., PICK UP TWILA, OKC
4–8 P.M. MADAME RUBY-ANN/SPOOK BASH
I understood the first entry only too well. Patricia had picked up a friend and gone up to Oklahoma City, probably for a couple of hours of shopping and lunch. The second entry gave me hope that she planned to return in time to attend St. Mildred’s Spook Bash this afternoon. But who was Madame Ruby-Ann?
I planned to attend the Spook Bash. I wanted to see Bayroo’s new friend. Now I had another excellent reason to be present. I was counting on Patricia Haskins telling me the name of someone who’d called Daryl or whom Daryl had called to set up a meeting at St.
Mildred’s.
I wondered if Chief Cobb had picked up on Patricia’s careful reply when he’d asked whether anyone else might have known Daryl’s destination . . .
CHAPTER 15
The chief sat at a circular table near his desk. He frowned, wrote swiftly on a legal pad. Folders surrounded him. A cordless telephone was within reach.
The chief ’s desk was pushed out from the wall and a bulky figure squatted behind the computer that had suffered unfortunate trauma last night. I was disappointed to see that the screen was still black.
The oblong box next to the screen had been opened. The interior looked like so much honeycomb to me. I moved around the desk.
Cords lay in a limp row on the floor.
The man staring at the computer shook his head. His orange ponytail swung back and forth. White stitching on the back of his blue work shirt read COMPUTER WHIZ. “Chief, you gotta know this had to be deliberate.”
My heart sank.
A chair scraped. The chief came behind the desk. “Last night Sergeant Lewis found the light on. He saw an intruder.”
“You don’t say,” Computer Whiz marveled. “How’d some joe break into the cop shop?”
Chief Cobb hunched his shoulders. “There wasn’t a break-in. No alarms sounded. The electric keypad on my office door didn’t record an entry.”