3 Sleuths, 2 Dogs, 1 Murder (The Sleuth Sisters)

by Maggie Pill

  He smiled warmly to cover his mistake. “Mrs. Burner, sorry. Please call me Win.”

  He gazed into my eyes for that extra half-second men like him use to let a woman know she interests them, or to try to create that impression. I tried to maintain objectivity, but he hadn’t gained a single point so far. Winston “Call me Win” brought words to my mind like greaseball, sleazeball, egotist, lothario, scuz-bucket. The list could have gone on.

  Still, he’d just become a widower and might soon be a client, so I sat down on the hard chair and took out my notepad. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Darrow. Please tell me what you can about your wife’s death and I’ll see if we can help.”

  “Win, please,” he repeated. Sitting down opposite me, he glanced around the room. “Are the police listening?”

  I shrugged. “They could be. This isn’t a privileged conversation.” Meeting his gaze, I asked, “Were you intending to tell me something you didn’t tell them?”

  “Of course not.” He waved both hands dismissively. “I told them the truth, same as I’m going to tell you.”

  He was smooth, but I noted fraying at the edges of his persona. His un-shaven beard was grayer than his hair, betraying his age. His clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were slightly glassy. Maybe he was grieving. With visible effort, he pulled himself together and began his story.

  “I was with Retta Stilson—your sister—Saturday night until about twelve. After we had dinner at that new Mediterranean restaurant, she invited me back to her place. She’d made a pie, and she said she’d never eat it all by herself.” He tried to look innocent. I tried to look like I didn’t care what he and my sister did after eating pie.

  “When I left Retta’s it was storming, and the east-west roads had drifted badly. The trip took longer than usual, white-knuckles all the way.”

  “What time did you get home?” I almost added “to your wife.”

  “About one-thirty. Everything was white, and I couldn’t see the driveway posts. When I turned in, one wheel went off into the ditch. I tried to back out, but I just made things worse. The car was off the road far enough that it wasn’t a hazard, so I left it there, figuring I’d call someone with a tractor in the morning. The house was dark, and my hands and feet were freezing from trying to push the car.” He looked down. “I didn’t look in on Stacy, just went to my own room and took a hot shower.”

  “You had separate rooms?”

  He licked his lips. “Stacy likes—liked her privacy, and we had plenty of space.” Darrow’s voice dropped a little. “She’d lost interest in pretty much anything that had to do with me.”

  “Was that because you went around telling other women you were divorced?”

  He tried for anger, but his reply sounded defensive. “We might as well have been.”

  “You stayed because she had money?” It was a guess, but why else would a charmer like Darrow stick with a woman who ignored him?

  It looked for a few seconds like he might cry, but after a choky little cough he said, “I’d have been a good husband if Stacy had been interested in being a wife.”

  I rolled my eyes. Every bar in the world has at least one guy leaning on his elbows and moaning, “My wife doesn’t understand me.” To be fair, there are women saying the same thing about their husbands.

  “Do you think she’d found someone else?”

  He huffed in denial. “I don’t see how. She never went anywhere.”

  I leaned back, and the chair made an ominous creak. “Where did you meet?”

  Winston also leaned back, unconsciously mirroring my action. “In New Mexico, in one of those artsy areas in Taos. I was having lunch at an outdoor café when Stacy came in. The place was crowded, she asked if we could share a table, and we got to talking. She’d just moved from Delaware. Her husband died, and she decided to start a new life somewhere else.”

  “Delaware.” As I wrote it down, I thought I recalled Barb mentioning Vermont, but I could check that later. “How did her husband die?”

  “Car accident, she said. Anyway, we hit it off, and I asked her out to dinner. From there on things went well, and it wasn’t long before we decided to get married.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Three weeks.” He looked embarrassed, and I thought I knew why.

  “By that time you’d figured out she was well off.”

  Leaning forward, he stretched his arms across the table toward me. “Just because a guy knows something like that doesn’t mean—”

  “He’s a gigolo?” I finished.

  Win tapped the table in rebuttal. “I liked Stacy. She was fun, she was gorgeous—”

  “She was a lot younger than you. How’d you pull that off, Mr. Darrow?”

  “Win,” he corrected automatically. He shook his head like a kid who doesn’t want to take his medicine. “She said we made a great couple. That was before she—” Looking at his hands, he put one over the other as if to hide the wrinkled skin. “She lost interest.”

  “Did she make you sign a pre-nup?”

  “Um, no.” He looked uncomfortable. “She kind of thought I had money too.”

  “Wonder where she got that idea.” Win looked away, and I guessed it was time to back off a little. “Okay. Tell me about your background.”

  He looked away, like my sons used to do when I asked where they’d gone the night before. Win wasn’t going to tell the truth he’d promised earlier.

  “I grew up in the San Joaquin Valley, worked in the movie industry as a kid—commercials, a few parts on sitcoms and once in a movie. My parents were pretty well off, but bad investments Dad made wiped out everything. He died of a heart attack when I was eighteen, and Mom went a month later, leaving me nothing but funeral bills and memories.” His tone was sad, but the story sounded rehearsed, as if he always told it the same way.

  “No siblings?”

  He smiled modestly. “Mom always said I was enough of a blessing.”

  “What did you do after they died?”

  His lower lip jutted briefly. “I did a little of everything, commercials, bit parts, some editing, and a stint as a first assistant on one of the daytime dramas.”

  “Any other marriages?”

  “None.” He went on in the same practiced tone. “A few years ago I got tired of it—all of it. I walked away from the Hollywood scene.”

  “And went to New Mexico.”

  “Yes. An old friend there invited me to stay in her guest house until I decided what I wanted to do.” He pulled at his collar in an unconscious grooming gesture. “She was very kind.”

  As I took notes, I looked for items that could be researched and proven. Win might or might have had well-to-do parents, might or might not be from California, might or might not have worked in Hollywood. Barb had found he listed himself as an entrepreneur. I guessed that meant, I’ll see who I can find to support me.

  “Stacy didn’t mind that you really weren’t wealthy?”

  “She said it didn’t matter.”

  “So you were happily married in Taos.”

  “Yes—well, no. As soon as we were married she said she’d found this great place in Michigan.” He grimaced. “I’ve never been much for winter, but Stacy promised we’d look for a second home somewhere warmer once we got settled.”

  “So you moved north.”

  He gave a dry chuckle. “To the friggin’ boondocks. Not one real city in the whole county.”

  “But your wife liked it here?”

  He spread his hands. “There wasn’t any more talk of getting a second place, that’s for sure. She settled into that house like it was the last place on earth.”

  “She didn’t go out?”

  “Sure she did.” His tone turned sarcastic. “She went out to the barn to see her horses. She went out to the woods to ski. She went out to the lakeshore to think. Everything else came to her. I got the groceries. I took the cars in for service.”

  “You did everything?” I was wondering if St
acy had simply wanted a cheap housekeeper.

  “Well, she did the banking,” he replied, “but most stuff that meant going where there were people was up to me.”

  Win’s wife hadn’t trusted him with her money. Go figure.

  “So you started going places where no one knew you, meeting women and telling them you were single.”

  He turned up the charm again. “Mrs. Burner, I don’t claim to be a saint, but I’m no monk, either. Stacy didn’t sleep with me, she didn’t talk to me—hell, there were times I don’t even think she saw me.” He picked at a fingernail. “She should have just hired a personal assistant. It would have been a lot kinder.”

  I sighed. “Tell me what happened Sunday morning.”

  Win licked his lips. “I woke up around nine, had a bowl of cereal, and watched a little of the morning news. When I realized I hadn’t heard Stacy moving around, I knocked on her door. There was no answer, so I looked in. The bed was made, the computer was on, and there was a full glass of Mountain Dew sitting on the desk, like she’d sat down then got up again.

  “I started looking, but she wasn’t in the house or the garage. I was about to check the barn when I noticed an odd bump under the snow on the deck out front. I went out there, and—” There was real emotion in his voice now. “—I knew it was bad. I bent down and—” His voice caught but he swallowed and continued. “It was Stacy, buried in snow.” He looked up at me. “Her head—I never saw anything like that before. I never—”

  When I realized he wasn’t going to finish I asked, “Why did the police arrest you?”

  The sneaky look returned to his eyes. “I don’t know. I swear to you, Mrs. Burner, I did not kill my wife. Why would I? I mean, I had to ask her for money, but she never said no. Stacy didn’t like to travel, but she let me go whenever I wanted. I had no reason to kill her. None.”

  Darrow’s claim of innocence got a laugh from the Bonner County sheriff when I repeated it to him a few minutes later. A sun-burned, raw-boned man, Wade Idalski seemed amused that a private investigator was asking about his case. Though he didn’t pat me on the head and tell me I should go back to the kitchen, he was amused by my assumption that anything Win Darrow had told me was the truth.

  “If she let him live as he wanted on her money,” I argued, “why would he kill her?”

  Sheriff Idalski folded his arms. “It’s early in the investigation, ma’am, so I can only tell you the basics. Mrs. Darrow was shot at close range with a pistol, possibly a .38 that’s missing from the home. In most homicides, the motive is either emotional or financial. We believe both motives are in play here.”

  I started for home, satisfied we had enough to decide whether to take the case. I’d have leaned toward a no vote if not for Retta’s involvement. If we took the case we could protect her reputation, making sure her innocence in Stacy Darrow’s death was established.

  The day was bright, and the snow glistened, making sunglasses a necessity. As I navigated the twisty, snow-covered roads around the lakes, I appreciated my recently-acquired vehicle. When the Smart Detective Agency began making a small profit, I’d upgraded my ride to a new-to-me 2010 Ford Escape. It was quiet, held the road well, and was an attractive shade of green. I liked its roominess after years of driving cars that were too small, too low, and all too likely not to start when I turned the key.

  Once I left the lake shore, large tracts of wooded land took over, with only a few cleared fields here and there. They were buried in snow, but corn stalks, stumps, and rock piles interrupted the otherwise solid blanket of white.

  Five miles out, something lay in the road. At first I thought it was a bag of garbage someone had tossed from a car window, rumpled black with spots of white. When it moved, I realized it wasn’t trash. Checking the rear-view mirror, I pulled the car close to the banked snow and turned on my flashers. There wasn’t much room, but I had to see what living thing lay exposed to cold and danger.

  It was a middle-sized dog of mixed breed. His curly hair was matted with ice; his eyes were large but dimmed with suffering. As I approached, he raised his head slightly and made a sound that would have been a growl if it had any strength behind it.

  “Hey, buddy. Hey, boy. What are you doing out here?”

  I looked around. No houses in sight, nothing moving. There weren’t many inhabited places along this stretch, just boarded up summer homes and cabins.

  The dog kicked his front leg weakly. “Are you hurt, buddy? Can I look?”

  Ever so slowly, I stretched out a hand toward him. Again he growled, but I spoke softly, crooning encouragement. I let him sniff my hand and waited until he relaxed a little. Next I touched the spot behind his ear where every dog in the world likes to be scratched. Though still tense, he let me rub the spot. Talking in a soft voice, I moved my hand to his head, petting and scratching. He might not have allowed it if he’d been well, but he wasn’t. Gradually he relaxed a little and I moved my hand to his body, probing gently.

  His back seemed okay, as did his front legs, but he flinched when I touched the right back one. When I found a distinct break in the bone, the dog let out a yip of pain and nipped at me. It was a reflex, and once I let go, he seemed penitent. “Sorry, buddy. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

  A car passed, and the driver frowned a warning. He had a point. It was a terrible place to stop in the road. Sitting back on my heels, I took stock. The dog was malnourished, possibly abused, hurt, and hostile. What was I going to do with him?

  Going to my car, I got an old fuzzy blanket kept there for emergencies. “You aren’t going to like this, buddy,” I told the dog when I returned, “but it’s got to happen.”

  Setting the blanket on the ground between us, I anchored one edge with my knees. The other edge I planted behind the dog then quickly pulled it toward me, sliding the fabric under him. Once the two edges met I rolled them together, encasing the dog tightly inside. The phrase “doggie bag” came to mind.

  My action kept him from biting me, but that didn’t mean the dog stopped trying. Holding the front edge with my knees, I rolled the blanket’s side edges up until he could hardly move at all. He gave up struggling, but his hopeless whine almost broke my heart. I wished I could let him know that my intentions for him were all good.

  Speaking soft words of encouragement, I picked the dog up, carefully centering his weight on my arms. He yelped; the broken leg had to hurt. When I got him to the car, I set him gently on the back seat and tucked the blanket ends tightly into the seat cushions. A healthy animal would have easily escaped, but this one was too weak. With a sigh of resignation, he slumped against the seat, accepting whatever happened next.

  Climbing into the front, I headed for Allport and the nearest veterinarian.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Retta

  I couldn’t settle down after Faye’s call, though I had plenty to do. The Allport Ice Festival was a few weeks away, and I still had at least a dozen businesses to contact for donations. Our alumni association was having its annual Lady Slipper Night on the 25th, and I had volunteered to organize the program. I’d baked a cake that morning (I love how baking makes the house smell.) and it was ready to be frosted. My daughter and her kids were coming for winter break, and I planned to order new curtains and bedspreads for their rooms. None of it got done as I wondered how I’d been so wrong about Winston Darrow.

  I hadn’t lied to Faye. Winston was not my Mr. Right, not even close, but he was witty and debonair. He’d traveled. He’d seen Paris—the city, not the Vegas hotel. He danced well. He spoke a little Spanish, and he didn’t think Pablo Picasso was a resort in Mexico. In short, he’d been pleasant company, different from other men I knew.

  That said, dating a married man is a violation of my personal code of conduct. A woman who takes a man from his wife gets a hound who’ll soon be on a new scent.

  Trying to remember what he’d said the night we met, I imagined Winston’s voice in my mind: “My wife and I divorced because we didn’t ha
ve the same interests anymore.” Had he used the word divorced? I thought he had, but he might have said “split.” Had I assumed the marriage was dissolved? If so, I’d proved that it’s true what they say about assuming.

  Still, Winston had cultivated the idea there was no one else at home, and I realized there was a good reason why he’d never invited me to his place. That meant he was a hound, but was he a murdering hound?

  I couldn’t see it. For one thing, he was a little wimpy, as I’d admitted to Faye. Though I’d told myself it didn’t matter, Winston cared more about how well his suit jacket fit than how well his car ran. Everything he owned was turned over to experts: his A/C, his lawn, his broken treadmill. He had no idea how to turn on an electric drill, much less repair a loose board on the deck of his house.

  By comparison, my Don had been able to fix anything, from my broken hair dryer to our furnace. In my mind that was what a man should be like, so despite Winston’s charm, I’d never seen him as husband material.

  Don was gone forever, killed by a drug-crazed addict too high to realize what he was doing. I wished for another man like Don, but so far I’d only met men like Winston. Men like him were easy to find. Men like Don, not so much.

  That thought brought the tears that had threatened since the news came. I missed Don, who’d been the love of my life, and learning about Winston’s lies made me feel like a stupid, desperate woman.

  After a while, I wiped my eyes with a tissue and pushed aside wishes there’s no use dwelling on. Knowing Faye and Barbara needed all the information they could get, I dug out a pad of paper and wrote down everything Winston had told me about his background.

  Raised in California

  Moved to Taos, NM

  Came to MI April, 2012

  Worked in movie industry until (?) a few years ago

  I stopped, staring at the pink three-by-five inch scratch pad. Was that all I knew about Winston? When we were out together, he’d talked, but it had been mostly about the exotic places he’d visited. Now that I thought about it, he’d answered direct questions about his past with a few glib sentences and moved on to something else. It hadn’t seemed odd at the time, but now it was downright suspicious.