Once in the car, Sean spent the whole time on his cell talking to the guys who were already on the scene. After a short ride, we turned the corner onto a street crammed with squad cars and uniformed cops.
“This is Cedar Street,” I said.
“I know.”
“But, I was just here this afternoon.”
“You were?”
“Yes, Sean. Don’t you ever listen? This is where that guy with the shirt lives.”
“Who?”
“The guy with the lipstick stain on his shirt. This is his house! Was he murdered? His wife did it! She found out about the affair with his secretary!”
Sean pulled in behind a city cruiser and turned his full attention on me. “Did you witness a murder today and just forgot to tell me about it?”
“No. I found that shirt with the lipstick stain. Like I said, it had to be the wife. She killed him in a fit of jealousy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not even sure I want to know. Can this wait?”
“No.”
“Stay in the car,” he barked, hopping out and starting across the lawn.
I rolled down the window and yelled after him. “But, Sean. I have a theory about what happened here. At least have your guys check to see if all the garbage was collected. If so, maybe they can canvas the bags at the dump and find the shirt.”
He waved me off and kept walking.
I sank back into the seat, defeated. He never took me seriously. Certainly, it was obvious that this was a crime of passion. I could see the whole scenario: The wife finds the shirt and probably several other signs of her husband’s infidelity. She confronts him about the affair. He confesses. She flips. She pulls a pistol out of the … no a steak knife … and plunges it into his heart. If she can’t have him, no one will.
I caught a glimpse of movement and looked up to see Mr. Cheater who, surprisingly, was very much alive, emerge from the house flanked on either side by uniformed officers. Guess I needed to rethink my theory.
I continued to observe the trio as they moved down the front walk. The man had changed out of his golf attire and was now wearing khakis and a striped button-down shirt. His shoulders were hunched and he swayed unsteadily, almost leaning into the officers for support. I rolled down the window as they made their way to the sidewalk. I was able to make out few snatches of their conversation.
“Why her? Who would do this?” He seemed distraught. His shoulders heaved as he spoke.
“Councilman Schmidt, is there anyone we can call to be with you at this time?” I heard one of the officers ask.
Ah. So, he’s a city councilman. I watched him closely as he pulled out a cell phone and began punching buttons. A councilman would be a man closely followed by the public eye. I did a mental nod and began tugging at a loose curl, letting my mind run with this new information:
Councilman Schmidt, after seeing his shirt in the garbage, knows he’s caught. His wife confronts him with the affair and threatens a divorce with a huge settlement. He flies into a fit of rage. He knows the divorce will tarnish his public image and ruin his political ambitions. Murdering his wife is the perfect way out. Now, not only can he be with his lover, but he will gain tons of sympathy as the grieving husband of a brutally slain woman.
Sean, wearing white latex gloves, emerged from the house and approached the group, “Councilman Schmidt, the coroner is having difficulty placing the time of death since your hot tub’s heater has affected the body temperature. You made the 911 call at 5:27 p.m. How long had you been in the house before you found her body?”
I leaned out of the car window, straining to hear his answer. “Only five minutes, maybe. I came in and got a beer from the fridge and flipped on the news. I was surprised that Amanda wasn’t in the kitchen making dinner, so I headed upstairs to see what was going on. I thought maybe she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary when you entered your home?” Sean asked.
“No, not really. Wait. There was something weird that happened earlier today.”
“What was that, sir?”
“Well, I came home around lunch to change after a round of golf. When I got here, there was a woman going through my garbage.”
Sean grimaced. I sank back into the seat and quickly turned my face away from the window, still keeping an ear peeled.
“Can you describe her?” Sean practically choked on the question.
“I didn’t get a great look at her face, but I remember that she was dressed in rags and had messy red hair. She must have been homeless. We usually don’t have those types in this neighborhood.”
Dressed in rags? I was wearing overalls and a plaid shirt for crying out loud.
“We should have him sit down with a sketch artist, sir,” one of the officers suggested.
“Well, yes … perhaps.” Sean cleared his throat. “Everything seemed fine when you were home at lunchtime?”
“Yes. Fine. Amanda was going to stay home this afternoon and make calls for an upcoming fundraiser for Community Union Library.”
Sean turned toward one of the officers. “I’ll need you to find the list of people she was contacting and we’ll need a phone record to help establish a time of death.”
“What time did you leave the house after changing, sir?” Sean inquired.
“Around 1:00. I was back at the office by 1:30.”
“Then you returned home at a little after 5:00.”
“Yes.”
“Did you have any other contact with your wife throughout the day? A phone call, email?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me how you discovered your wife?”
Schmidt drew in a deep breath. “Like I said, I came in and couldn’t find Amanda so I went upstairs. I noticed that our bedroom was torn up a little bit. Then I walked into the bathroom and...” He broke into sobs.
There was a respectful silence while Schmidt composed himself. I slouched further down still keeping my face hidden from view.
Sean asked, “Did you use your key to get into the house?”
“No, the front door was unlocked.”
“Do you always go in the front door?” Sean was watching Schmidt’s reactions closely.
“Most of the time. Why?”
“Just routine questions, sir. You said that there was some jewelry missing. I’ll have one of the officers get a full description of the stolen items from you.”
Just then, a black Mercedes screeched to a halt next to me. A well-groomed older couple emerged and rushed over to the group. I noticed that Sean’s demeanor change noticeably as the couple approached.
“Judge Reiner, what brings you here?” Sean asked.
“I’m here as a close personal friend of Councilman Schmidt.”
One look at the man confirmed everything I’d heard. Judge Reiner, with his massive bulk, burly face, and comb-over, looked a bit like the Incredible Hulk having a bad hair day. His physical appearance definitely matched his reputation as a tyrant in the courtroom.
The judge pushed his way toward Schmidt. “We just heard the news. Richard. I’m so sorry about Amanda. We got here as soon as we could.”
The woman with the judge placed a heavily jeweled hand on Schmidt’s arm. “This is all so awful. What can we do?”
Schmidt buried his face in his hands, “I don’t know. I can’t believe this is happening. I just saw her this morning and everything was fine.” He looked toward the house. “It was awful. All the blood...”
Mrs. Reiner moved in closer and wrapped a consoling arm around Schmidt. “You need to be with friends right now, Richard. Why don’t you let us pack up a few things and take you back to our house? You can stay with us,” she said throwing her husband a prompting look.
“Yes, stay at our place,” the judge offered after a slight hesitation.
Schmidt bristled. “No I can’t do that,” he blurted out, and then added in a more subdued ton
e, “Thanks anyway. I’ll be fine.”
“Well then, at least let us drop you somewhere. Do you have family nearby?” Mrs. Reiner began ushering Schmidt toward the Mercedes.
“Just a minute, Mrs. Reiner. We have a few more questions for Councilman Schmidt.”
“Look, Panelli,” the judge inserted himself, “The man just lost his wife. Can’t your questions wait?”
I watched Sean as he shifted his stance slightly. I had dated him long enough to recognize this posture; it was his stubborn stance. “I’m afraid not, sir. You know as well as I that the first few hours after a crime are crucial to the investigation. I need to get as much information from Councilman Schmidt as I can, while it’s still fresh in his memory.” Sean lightly grabbed Schmidt’s arm. “Can you come with me, sir?”
Schmidt stiffened. His eyes nervously darted between Sean and the judge. “I know enough about crime investigations to know that I’m the number one suspect. The husband always is. But, I didn’t do this. I would never kill my wife. I loved her.”
You also loved your secretary, I thought.
“Yes, sir,” Sean replied, still trying to nudge him away from the judge and his wife.
Schmidt was starting to become agitated. “What about that homeless woman I told you about! She probably broke in to rob the place and killed Amanda. Aren’t you going to follow up on that? You’re wasting your time questioning me when you ought to be out looking for that vagrant woman.”
I couldn’t shrink any lower in the car.
“I can assure you that we’re being very thorough, sir. There’s a squad car right over here. My questions will only take a couple more minutes and then you can be on your way.”
“Do you need me to call an attorney, Richard?” the judge asked.
“What? I don’t need an attorney. I didn’t kill her!”
Sean’s grip had tightened on Schmidt’s arm. “Come on, sir.”
For a second, it looked like Schmidt might put up a fight, but he relented. His demeanor seemed to shrink as he spoke. “Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to help find who did this to Amanda.”
After Sean and another officer ushered Schmidt to the squad car across the street, the judge and his wife retreated to their Mercedes. I sat quietly for a couple of minutes watching officers move in and out of the house until I became too antsy to sit any longer. I decided to take action. Not wanting to chance it that Schmidt might recognize my “messy” red hair, I rummaged in the backseat until I found Sean’s standard police-issue sweatshirt and shrugged into it, shoving my hair inside the hood, and pulling the cord tight so that not a single curl could escape. I eased out of the car and meandered up the walkway toward the front door. I carefully kept my face turned away from the squad car where Sean, Councilman Schmidt, and another officer were deep in conversation.
I recognized most of the officers. “Hey, Pippi.” One of the guys waved.
“Hi, Jimmy. How’s Celia doing?”
“Fine. Just two more weeks.”
“Boy or girl?”
“We want to be surprised.”
“Good for you,” I responded, moving around an entourage of busy officers. Down the street, others were keeping the press at bay. The murder of a city official’s wife would occupy the prime spot on the evening news for several days.
Inching closer to the crime scene tape, I craned my neck and caught a glimpse into the home’s foyer. The display of cultured taste was impressive: marble flooring, a mahogany stair railing, and a scrolled table with a Tiffany lamp. Leaning over the tape, I could see a golf bag propped against the far wall of the foyer. It contained several clubs, three with green and blue plaid head covers. Attached to the bag handle was a golf towel with a large embossed emblem of a windmill. I recognized the symbol. The windmill was all that remained of original homestead acreage, which in the 1920s was molded and sculpted into today’s Middleton Golf Club.
From my distance, I couldn’t make out the brand of clubs Schmidt was using. Not that I would recognize them, I’m not much of a golfer, but just a couple of months ago, I had purchased a used set at an estate sale. I paid seventy-five dollars and turned them over on my on-line auction for two hundred and fifty. That particular set had ten clubs. A quick survey of Schmidt’s bag also revealed ten clubs: a driver, a putter, a couple of woods, and various irons.
“I thought I told you to stay in the car, Pippi. This is a murder scene.”
I turned on my heel and was face-to-face with Sean. He didn’t look happy.
“I know.” I nervously glanced toward the squad car where Schmidt was supposed to be. “Where’s Schmidt?”
“He went with the judge and his wife. Come on, you need to leave.” He put his hand on the small of my back and started pushing me toward the car. “Look,” he said into my ear as we made our way down the walk. “This case is going to be complicated and very public. Richard Schmidt is well-known around here. Besides, he can probably finger you as being at the crime scene earlier. You know, the homeless woman with the messy red hair.”
He was right. “Fine,” I said, shaking him off and getting into the car on my own accord. Sean rounded the vehicle and slid behind the wheel.
“Are you taking me home or are you going to bring me in as a suspect?” I asked as we pulled away from the curb.
“You didn’t tell me that he saw you digging in his garbage.”
“Guess I forgot that part.”
“Did anyone else, besides Schmidt, see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s good. Just hang low for a while.”
“So, he thinks I’m a homeless woman.”
“Well, you were going through his garbage.”
“Schmidt’s a jerk. He’s your prime suspect, isn’t he?” I asked.
“No comment.”
“What? Oh, come on, Sean. What about the shirt? He was cheating on his wife. He killed her so she wouldn’t expose his affair and tie him up in a messy divorce.”
“A shirt with a lipstick stain is hardly concrete evidence.”
“Well, why else would someone throw out a hundred dollar shirt?”
“A guy like him probably has twenty of those shirts.”
“He did it, Sean. I know he did.”
“Look, Pippi, he’s a city councilman. His reputation is impeccable. He has tons of friends, important friends. There’s even talk that he’s a shoe-in for mayor.”
“I see. He may end up being your boss.”
“Stop it!” He slapped the steering wheel. “You know that’s not how I operate.”
“I’m just saying that his political ambitions give him all the more motive to want his wife dead, especially if she was going to divorce him and go public about the affair.”
“What affair? We don’t have any proof that the guy was being unfaithful.”
I shrugged it off. Apparently he didn’t buy into the whole lipstick stain angle. “You’re going to check into it, right?” I asked.
“I know how to do my job, Pippi.”
“Of course you do. You’re good at it, too,” I added, trying to stroke his ego. “Did you say that the body was found in the tub?”
Silence.
“Shot?” I tried.
Sean’s jaw began to twitch. “You know I can’t talk about an investigation.”
“Just tell me what’s going to be released to the media. It’ll be all over tonight’s news anyway,” I pleaded.
“Fine. She was bludgeoned to death. Apparently, the perp killed her and then removed the jewelry from her body and some pieces that were stored in the dresser. She was beaten badly. Her whole face...” He shuddered. “She was unrecognizable.”
I reached across the seat and put a hand on his shoulder. “What a horrible way to die.” Sean’s face appeared stoic, but I knew that he was bothered. I couldn’t imagine looking at a dead body like that. The only bodies I ever saw were at open-casket funerals and that was freaky enough for me.
Sean turned
down my alley. “I’m going to see you inside. I think you should stay in tonight. I’ll be busy with the case for a while, but I’ll call when I can.” He walked me inside, gave me a quick kiss, and turned to leave. I grabbed him before he got back through the door, “You didn’t mention what the murder weapon was.”
His expression turned dark. “Stay in and lock the doors, Pippi.”
Chapter Two
The next morning, I awoke feeling disoriented. I had tossed and turned throughout the night, waking several times to think about the case. I couldn’t shake the thought of Amanda Schmidt being bludgeoned to death. That type of brutality signified rage and indicated a personal, highly emotional motive. More than likely, if this was a simple case of theft gone awry, the burglar would have delivered one fatal blow, gathered the loot, and fled.
It was almost seven and I was eager to know what new developments had occurred in the case, but I knew better than to call Sean; he was probably busy with the case. Not to mention, that he wasn’t real happy with me the night before. So instead, I flipped on the morning news. The story of Amanda Schmidt’s murder was on every local channel. Unfortunately so was I. Well, not me specifically, but a “person of interest” which happened to be a middle-aged, red-haired, heavy-set, vagrant woman dressed in torn clothing and driving a dark blue, beat up, late model station wagon.
“What?” I asked out loud, as if the anorexic, twenty something, news anchor could hear me. “Heavy-set? What the heck are you talking about? And, middle-aged? Why I was barely in my thirties.”
I high tailed it to the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and pressed my nose against the medicine cabinet mirror. I looked real hard, but didn’t see any crow’s feet. Then, I stepped back and climbed up on the edge of the tub, twisted this way and that, so I could get a good look at my back side. (I had smashed my full length mirror six months ago on day three of the Atkins Program.) I was just noting how much better my bootie was looking when a thought occurred to me. I was a suspect in a murder case. My description, or at least a close description of me, was all over the news. Were my family and friends watching right now? Were they picking up their phones and reporting my whereabouts? Was I hearing sirens?
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