by R. J. Lee
Carlos was shaking his head and again avoiding eye contact. “You won’t believe me if I tell you. I mean, I hear myself saying it in my head, and I’m not sure I’d believe it, either.”
“Try me.”
“It was him,” Carlos said with great intensity.
“Who?”
“Mr. Ogle. It was him.”
“How so?”
Carlos raised his voice again, speaking with added emotion. “He brought out the worst in people. He was the Devil, himself. He made me feel like I was less than a man with the way he treated me, with the way he talked to me and about me. He snatched little bits and pieces of my manhood as time went on. Maybe that was why when Berry came after me the way she did, I let the worst part of me, the weakest part of me, take over. Maybe I thought I needed to prove something to myself. It seems so immature now, like something an insecure high school punk might do. And I told my priest that I knew that I was ultimately to blame. I chose to do what I did. I knew I needed to be absolved. But still . . . there was something about Mr. Ogle that made you doubt yourself. I know I should have been stronger than that, but I admit that I wasn’t. Sometimes, the flesh is all too weak.”
Ross said nothing while he briefly glanced at Bax, who looked as if he approved of what Carlos had just told them.
“But you both need to know,” Carlos continued, “that I never acted on any impulse I ever had to do away with Mr. Ogle. If I said I wanted to bash his head in, it was an unfortunate choice of words, as it turns out. But that was all it was—just angry words in the heat of the moment. I did not pick up my own pestle that is a cherished tool of my trade and use it to murder Mr. Ogle.” There was a pause during which Carlos finally made sustained eye contact with the officers. “You aren’t gonna arrest me now, are you?”
“We have no actual evidence that you committed the crime,” Ross told him. “We only know that you were at the crime scene delivering drinks and putting up with Mr. Ogle’s usual abuse all afternoon and into the evening. We also know that someone showed up there with the pestle, clubbed Mr. Ogle with it, and then threw it into the hot tub where all prints and DNA were conveniently compromised. As a result, Mr. Galbis, you are free to go. But as we told you before, please do not leave town in case any sort of solid evidence does show up.”
Carlos thanked them and then scurried away, as if by lingering even slightly he might incur further questioning and bring additional shame upon himself.
* * *
“It’s my educated guess that Carlos fits the Hell Hath No Fury scenario and not Occam’s Razor,” Bax was saying as the two men began evaluating their most recent interrogation. “Miz Passman was clearly out for blood. I consider that her performance here with us today was a hatchet job.”
Ross nodded, but there remained an unmistakable look of frustration on his face. “No matter what happens, though, it seems we always get back to a lack of solid evidence, thanks to that blasted hot tub. It turned out to be the perfect device to erase all helpful clues. Did someone plan that in advance or was this a spur-of-the-moment thing? Without a confession—and not the kind Carlos made at the Basilica—I’m afraid we’re stymied again.”
“At the moment, yes, but that doesn’t mean that something won’t show up that turns the case around,” Bax told him, tapping his finger on the table for emphasis. “I’ve seen it happen time and time again in this bid’ness. Just when you think you have no hope of solving the case, there’s the break you were looking for.”
Ross looked anything but convinced. “Well, we thought this Miz Passman might be just that, but as far as I can tell, it’s a bust. My faith in Carlos has been slightly restored again.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but no one is off the hook until we find the solution to this.”
Back at his desk, Ross worked off some nervous energy of his own by tidying up a bit while thinking about the preemptive concept that Wendy had explained to him the evening before. Had Carlos actually done something like that to take the pressure and suspicion off himself—painting a picture of himself as too good to be true? When Ross had initially interrogated the man, he could have sworn that Carlos would have been incapable of cheating on his wife. Yet incredibly, that had happened, and his lover had come forth and ascribed to him some very base and visceral feelings. Carlos, himself, had admitted that he had allowed the worst part of him, the weakest part of him, to influence his decision to have an affair. In the heat of the moment and having at last had more than enough, had he also allowed the worst within him to bludgeon Brent Ogle to death?
Yes, the Hell Hath No Fury concept made the most sense in all of this, which involved giving Carlos the benefit of the doubt. But Occam’s Razor was still out there, stubbornly hanging around as the outlier.
* * *
At the same time that Ross and Bax had been questioning Carlos, Wendy had been busy at her cubicle reluctantly putting together the first draft of her feature on the women who were now running the RCC. Lyndell had told her earlier that morning that she wanted to schedule the article for the upcoming Wednesday edition, if at all possible. That was the day of the week offering all the restaurant, grocery, laundry item coupons and penny savers that made it the most widely read as a result—even edging out the larger Sunday edition with its many wedding write-ups and colorful comics by just a tad bit.
“Do you think you can get it polished by then?” Lyndell had asked her in the editorial office.
Wendy had told her that she thought she could. Yet she had her concerns, even though she had not brought them up to Lyndell then and there. It made her shudder to think so, but what if, by some unthinkable chance, either Deedah or Mitzy were exposed as Brent Ogle’s murderer by then? And if that did not happen by Wednesday, how would her feature look in retrospect if either was exposed at a later date?
In fact, Wendy had not gotten any further than the first paragraph before she left the cursor blinking and decided that it might be in the Citizen’s best interests to postpone the feature a little longer just to be on the safe side. Resolutely, she headed toward Lyndell’s office, mentally rehearsing how she was going to handle the situation without seeming to go against her boss’s wishes in somewhat paranoid fashion.
“I have to admit I hadn’t thought of that angle,” Lyndell told her after Wendy had expressed her concerns in a straightforward manner. “But how long do you suggest we postpone this? We have no way of knowing how long it will take the Rosalie CID to solve this.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
The déjà vu that beset Wendy was easily explained. Deedah had used the same argument to suggest that the next meeting of the Bridge Bunch be postponed until Brent Ogle’s murder was solved. Now the shoe was on the other foot and Wendy was using the same argument for postponement with Lyndell. But the two scenarios were entirely different. One involved putting off playing a social card game; the other involved the possibility of the Citizen having a great deal of egg on its face at some point. Furthermore, Wendy saw clearly that her reputation as a journalist might be severely damaged by taking the chance that she might end up having praised the virtues of a murderer beforehand.
Lyndell maintained her composure as usual and said, “Do you really think either of these women committed this crime? From what I’ve heard of them from you, it seems so unlikely.”
“I wish I could give you a definitive answer. I wish I could guarantee you that neither of them did it and that our path was clear to go into detail about their accomplishments at the RCC. But I can’t actually do that.”
Lyndell sat back in her chair, and for the very first time since she had taken over as editor, she appeared to be displeased with something that Wendy had said to her. “Tell me the truth now, have you gotten so involved in this murder case that you’ve allowed it to influence your assignment for the paper? I know your job is to investigate, but do you think you may have blurred the line a bit too much? I do remember cautioning you to let the police department do it
s job in that regard.”
Wendy noted the slight edge to Lyndell’s voice, and it was disconcerting to hear. Perhaps there was some truth to what Lyndell was saying, but Wendy just couldn’t help it. Her close association with Ross and her father inevitably put her in the unique position of being the beneficiary of leaks that others did not enjoy. Wendy knew that it was in her blood, but also that she wanted the best of both worlds. She wanted to maintain her job as an investigative reporter while honing her sleuthing instincts. Lyndell had just pointed out to her that she was walking a tightrope and needed to be careful not to fall.
“Are you dead set on publishing the piece this coming Wednesday?” Wendy said, trying to negotiate her way out of her dilemma. “I wouldn’t want to put the paper in a bad light by running it too soon, as I said.”
Lyndell’s sigh had an air of resignation to it. “All right, then. Being relatively new to Rosalie, I am going to defer to your judgment here. Your family has been here a long time, and you know the lay of the land better than I do. Just continue to put your article together and get it ready to run. I’ll make the decision to release it depending upon how the investigation goes. We’ve done good work together so far, and I don’t want to jeopardize that relationship or your reputation.”
“Thank you, Lyndell. I’ll get back to work on the piece as if the murder had never even happened. And who knows? Maybe in the end we’ll get to have our cake and eat it, too.”
Lyndell leaned forward with a wry grin. “Just don’t use clichés like that in the feature.”
“Done,” Wendy said, smiling back.
Then, she finally remembered something very important she had meant to tell Lyndell before she’d been given the original deadline on the RCC article. “By the way, I’m having an intimate little dinner party next Saturday, and I’d like for you to come. It’s just going to be my boyfriend, Ross Rierson, and myself; plus my dear old daddy, Bax Winchester, is dropping by for some of my home cooking. I thought maybe you could make a fourth for us, since I do believe you expressed some interest in meeting him. What do you say?”
The suggestion of tension that their earlier conversation about the feature had generated disappeared completely from Lyndell’s face, and she brightened immediately. “I’d be delighted, of course. Is it going to be casual or what?”
“No one ever dresses up to have dinner with me in my little bungalow,” Wendy told her, and then gave her a wink. “But by all means, wear something inspirational, if you’d like.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind you’ll manage it well.”
* * *
Wendy had no sooner sat down in her cubicle and returned to her blinking cursor than the reception desk put through a call for her from Carly Ogle.
“What can I do for you today?” Wendy said, after they’d exchanged the usual pleasantries.
“I wanted you to be the first to know. I’ve decided to take my son David’s advice and put Brentwood on the market. It’s time for me to leave.”
Wendy was a bit taken by surprise at first but then thought it would be more important to be supportive of the major decision that Carly had just made. “I’m sure your son will be delighted to hear the news. I could tell at the memorial service that he really didn’t think Rosalie was the place for you anymore.”
“He was absolutely right, but I haven’t told him what I’ve decided to do yet,” Carly said. “I was thinking that maybe I needed to pick out which pieces I’d allow to be sold along with the house and which I’d want to save for David. He’ll get married someday, I hope, and I’m sure his wife will appreciate acquiring my tasteful things. Brent’s stuff is tacky beyond belief, but I have invested in some lovely antiques over the years. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like for you to come out tomorrow sometime and help me go over everything, room by room. Help me clean my house.”
The request was an even bigger surprise for Wendy. She, herself, was more an aficionado of flea markets and yard sales. She had a few antiques that she had inherited from her mother, but her house was filled mostly with the out-of-leftfield “finds” from those venues. “Well, I have to admit I’ve never done anything like that, but I’d be happy to give it a try if you really need me.”
“I truly would appreciate it so much. I think I need an outside opinion from someone I trust.”
“I’m flattered that you think of me that way,” Wendy said.
“Then that’s all settled. Could you maybe drive out during your lunch hour? I promise not to keep you too long. As I said, it’s time for me to leave.”
Wendy said she could arrange it without too much trouble. After the call ended, she made a note to herself on her desk calendar and then returned to her cursor. But despite Lyndell’s directive that she press ahead with the article for later release, Wendy found herself drifting once again into thoughts about the investigation. She just couldn’t seem to help herself.
This time, that opening session of the Bridge Bunch rose up before her with its quick lesson on preempting. Of all the speculations that intrigued her the most regarding Brent Ogle’s murder—a handful that included a grand, building-wide conspiracy, two people working together, and everyone except herself having a believable motivation to off the man—the one with true staying power for her was preempting.
She immediately reviewed that relatively short period of time during which she had displayed and then explained a preemptive hand—short on points, but perhaps seven or eight cards long in the same suit. There had been three people sitting at that table taking in her instruction with great interest: Deedah, Hollis, and Carly. Was one of them the most likely to have utilized the concept of preempting after committing murder, then? Why had she not considered this before in terms of who was actually privy to her instruction that day?
Then, she let out a little gasp when she remembered one little detail she had overlooked. There was one other person who had been present during that preemptive bid lesson: Mitzy Stone. She had come up behind the table and quietly kibitzed before announcing her presence and offering her services as a barmaid. Then she had asked for a further explanation of the preemptive bid and described it as devious.
That was an odd word to use.
Wendy focused further on Mitzy. She had been extremely cooperative and calm about revealing that she was related to Coach P. J. Doughty; and she had hung his picture on her wall, which seemed to give credence to her genealogical claims. But there had been no hint of rage in her demeanor during their lengthy conversation, and she had eagerly pointed the finger at Gerald Mansfield when asked who she figured for the murderer. Could Mitzy have been the one who was painting a picture of herself as always under control, always being the bigger person when it came to handling the macho posturing of certain males, all the while secretly seething to get the ultimate revenge on behalf of her grandfather?
Finally, Wendy came out of her cerebral exercise and faced the cursor at last. It was time to start putting flesh on the bones of her RCC piece, and getting rid of the blank screen was the first step. Of course, she had to admit that Lyndell had her pegged perfectly. She had indeed become distracted by and obsessed with the murder case, still holding out hope that she would be the one to bring home the solution. Back to work, then.
Wendy had just finished composing her opening paragraph, however, when the reception desk informed her that she had yet another call.
“Who is it?” Wendy wanted to know.
“A Mr. Hollis Hornesby,” the receptionist told her.
Wendy frowned while she considered whether to take the call or not. First, Carly. Then, Hollis. Were they all going to call her up, one after another? Whatever the case, her curiosity got the better of her, and she was soon exchanging perfunctory greetings with him.
“What do you make of Carly’s decision to sell that monstrosity of a house that her husband built?” Hollis continued. “She just invited me to come out there tomorrow around noon and hel
p her decide what artwork she should keep for her son and what she should let go. She told me she’d asked you to do the same for her with the furniture. It sounds like a pilot for one of those super-specific cable TV shows, if you ask me. They have them for every subject under the sun now.”
Hollis’s propensity for making people laugh had Wendy doing just that, temporarily pushing aside her surprise upon hearing of Carly’s other request. “I didn’t think of it that way, but you’re right.”
“How about Keep or Sell? or something like that for a show title. Wait . . . that sounds more like a game show, doesn’t it? I’ve always wanted to get on one of those and win some money for answering stupid questions that everybody knows, but I understand all the shows are hard to get on and—”
“Hollis, you’re wandering off the plantation,” Wendy interrupted.
There was a brief pause, followed by a giggle. “So I am. Anyway, I think Carly’s request is downright weird. I honestly think the murder has had a greater effect on her than anyone’s realized. Her instability seems to have gone through the roof. My friend Penny who works at the Hair You Go Salon downtown says Carly came in yesterday to have her hair done as usual but insisted on an entirely different style than she’s ever worn. Penny said Carly told her she wanted to get rid of the past entirely. As I said, I have to wonder about her mental state at this point.”
Wendy flashed back to that cathartic revelation when Carly could not seem to stop beating herself up for having all those violent, hateful thoughts about her abusive husband. “It does make sense, though, if you put it in context. Selling Brentwood would help her get rid of the past, too. There’s a part of her that probably can’t get rid of Brentwood fast enough.”
“Hmmm,” Hollis said. “I see your point. And apparently I will see you tomorrow out there. Are you up for this level of responsibility? I don’t want to get into some wicked catfight with her if she disagrees with any of my decisions. Of course, I like to think I know something about art, so maybe she’ll defer to me.”