“Dale Edmunds? The Big Kahuna? You’re kidding me, right? What would a working schmo like me be doing rubbing elbows with the owner?” Eugene evaded the question.
“But you’ve met him?” Chas persisted.
“Yeah, sure. Everybody’s met him. He handed me my award for Salesperson of the Year.”
“Congratulations. This year?”
“No, last year. We haven’t had awards for this year yet. Don’t know if we will now,” he shook his head with an affected air of sadness.
“Ever meet his wife?”
“Yeah, sure. I met her at the Fourth of July party. Nice gal. Real quiet. Way outta my league, if you know what I’m sayin,” he grinned and waggled his eyebrows.
“No, I don’t. What do you mean?”
Eugene stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was serious. “Well, I mean… she’s the boss’s wife, you know? She’s used to a standard of living that a guy like me only dreams about,” he shrugged.
“So you don’t have aspirations of being rich and famous?” Chas wasn’t teasing, but made it sound as though he were.
“I’m content to be famous in my own little corner of the world. Ain’t nobody that I can’t sell to,” he puffed up comically.
“I’m sure you heard what happened to Mr. Edmunds,” Chas changed the subject and the smile on Eugene’s face disappeared in a flash.
“Yeah, what an awful thing,” he shook his head with more ersatz sympathy.
“Any idea who might’ve done it?”
“None at all, sorry. Like I said, the boss man and me, we weren’t exactly lunch buddies, you know?”
“Is there anyone that you can think of who might’ve had a grudge against him?”
“Nah, he was a pretty straight-up guy, easy to work for. I don’t know about that brother of his though. He seems way too serious for my liking.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Yeah, I mean… indirectly. It’s not like we had a conversation or anything. He came out to break the news about the boss. Told us that he’d be taking over, but that everything else would stay the same. Why mess with a good thing, he says. Course he didn’t put it like that, but that was my interpretation of it.”
“Say, what do you use that for around here?” Chas asked, pointing to a loop of orange nylon cord that was sticking out from under a stack of papers on Eugene’s desk.
“Hah, I forgot that was even there. I use it to tie my computer cords together. Those things look like a plate of spaghetti if you don’t tame ‘em.”
“That’s a great idea. You know, I could use that for my computer cords too. Can you spare that piece?” Chas held out his hand.
Eugene grabbed the cord and handed it to him. “Sure man, knock yourself out. Hey, are we close to done here? I got an offsite sales call in about half an hour.”
“Yes, I think we’re done for now,” Chas said, standing to go. “Nice meeting you.”
“You too, Beckett. Come back anytime, you seem like good people.”
***
“Do you have the piece of cord that Beckett brought in?” Tim asked Fiona, hovering over the wrist of Dale Edmunds with a magnifying glass.
“Coming right up,” Fiona replied, bringing him the cord.
“Close, but it’s not the same,” Tim murmured, comparing the twist of the cord to the markings on the victim’s wrist.
“Hmm…that’s weird,” Fiona frowned. “It was the same color and everything.”
“Orange is a common color for this type of thing. The cord that we’re looking for had more internal strands than this cord,” he concluded.
“So Chas’s suspect gets a pass on this one?”
“It would appear so. Bring me the photo binder please,” Tim pointed in the direction of the desk.
When Fiona brought it, he directed her to flip to the page of photos that he had taken of Alison Edmunds’s wrists when Solinsky hadn’t been looking.
“The marks on her wrists are virtually the same,” he muttered, comparing the photo to the wrist of the victim.
“Well, that’s not a surprise,” Fiona was puzzled at his observation. “The same cord was used on both of them.”
“Yes, but the fact that her bindings were as tight as his is significant.”
Understanding dawned. “Oh! Because that means that she couldn’t have bound herself, which eliminates her as a suspect,” Fiona nodded.
“Precisely. She couldn’t have gotten the cord this tight,” he pointed at the photo, “if she had done it herself.”
“Unless she was in on it and had an accomplice,” Fiona suggested.
“I would find it difficult to believe that a wife would have the stomach to lie next to the dead body of her husband, even if she wanted to kill him,” Tim replied.
“Speaking of stomachs… don’t you find it odd that there was no vomit at the scene?” Fiona asked.
“Perhaps the police are becoming immune to the carnage,” Tim smiled faintly. Blood and gore didn’t bother him, but there was typically a policeman with a weak stomach at every gory crime scene.
“But… what about the wife? Isn’t it strange that she lay there next to him, hearing what happened, seeing what happened, and not reacting the typical way that a spouse would?”
“There was no gunshot residue on her hands,” Tim flipped through the preliminary forensics report. “Maybe she was just in shock and couldn’t really react,” he shrugged.
“Maybe,” Fiona didn’t sound convinced.
“He was most likely unconscious when he died,” Tim examined what was left of the victim’s face.
“How can you tell?”
“This bruising here, just below the cheekbone, is relatively fresh, and happened prior to death, which means that his attacker most likely punched him out before shooting him.”
“Which further points away from the wife.”
Tim nodded. “Particularly when considering the size of the bruise,” he held a tape measure up to the spot. “It’s bigger than an average female hand, but smaller than an average male. And it has strike points that indicate it was a fist, rather than another blunt object,” he pointed to darker-colored spots which were clearly spaced like knuckles.
“You’re right,” Fiona held her fist up in front of her face, then looked down at Tim’s hand and the victim’s. “It’s smaller than yours and his, but bigger than mine. But that doesn’t make sense… didn’t the wife say that the attacker was really tall? Wouldn’t a really tall guy have larger hands?”
“It would depend on his build. Men can be tall without being large boned. Did we get any photos of the dog walker’s hands?” Tim asked.
“No, but I remember that he was tall and thin,” Fiona’s eyes widened. “Did he get tested for gunshot residue?”
“I don’t believe so. Solinsky interviewed him. He may have decided that he wasn’t worth pursuing as a suspect.”
“Solinsky,” Fiona sighed, making a face.
“Get Beckett on the phone, please,” Tim instructed.
“Will do.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
“Renaldo?” Spencer approached the landscaper outside of Alison Edmunds’s house.
“Sí?” the man smiled, his perfectly white teeth standing out against his deeply tanned skin. He pulled his work glove off to shake Spencer’s hand.
“Hi, my name is Spencer Bengal. I’m investigating the death of your client, Dale Edmunds. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“No, not at all. I’ll help in any way that I can,” the landscaper’s smile disappeared, replaced with an earnest look of sympathy. “It’s a terrible thing that happened,” he shook his head.
“Yes, it is,” Spencer agreed. “Do you recall seeing anyone that you didn’t recognize hanging out around here lately?”
“No, but I’m only here once a week,” Renaldo shrugged.
“Did the Edmunds have any regular visitors?”
“I sa
w Mr. Edmunds’s brother around sometimes lately, but other than that…not that I know of.”
“Do you know whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Edmunds seemed to have a good relationship?”
“They both seemed happy. They’re nice people. I only really talk to them when I give them my invoices.”
“How often is that?”
“Once a month. If they’re not home, I just leave it inside the screen door.”
“And then they mail you a check?”
“Sometimes, but usually Mrs. Edmunds comes out and gives it to me the next time that I’m working.”
“So you see her more than him?” Spencer clarified.
“Much more, sí,” Renaldo nodded.
“Has she been acting any differently lately?”
“Not that I noticed, no.”
“You said that Mr. Edmunds’s brother has been visiting lately…did you have a chance to talk to him at all?”
“Oh, no sir,” the landscaper shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t even try to talk to him. He always seems angry.”
“Do you have any idea what he might be angry about?”
“No. I think maybe he’s just an angry person,” Renaldo shrugged again.
“How did you know that he’s Mr. Edmunds’s brother? Were you introduced?”
“No, definitely not. I saw that he looked like Mr. Edmunds and I asked about it. Mrs. Edmunds told me who he was.”
“I see. Do you happen to know a young man named Thomas Cosgrove?”
“That doesn’t sound familiar.”
“That’s a nice truck over there. Is that your work truck?” Spencer looked over at the powerful machine with admiration.
“Yep, she’s all paid off, too. I budget wisely,” Renaldo grinned.
“I guess you’d have to, since you run your own business,” Spencer nodded.
“Yes, I’ve been fortunate. I started out as a gardener, then worked my way up to having my own business. That took a lot of mowing and weeding.”
“I can imagine. Well, I won’t keep you from your work. Thanks for giving me some time,” Spencer shook his hand again.
“My pleasure. I hope that you find whoever did this terrible thing. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Spencer slipped his sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose and headed back to his car, hoping that Ringo had been able to find something that would give them a good lead in the case.
***
“If you’re here to talk to the kid, you’re too late,” Solinsky smirked when he ran into Chas Beckett outside Calgon General Hospital.
“Too late? What are you talking about?”
“He left, before they could even officially check him out,” the detective seemed almost pleased.
“Call me crazy, but I’m guessing that wouldn’t have happened if you’d have stationed a guard outside his room like I asked you to,” Chas’s frustration with the incompetent detective boiled over.
“You can’t stand the fact that you don’t call the shots around here anymore, can you, Beckett? I’m the one in charge, and it’s a good thing too. If you’re chasing after the kid as a suspect, you’re barking up the wrong tree. He didn’t do it.”
“It’s kind of difficult to make that assertion when you didn’t even test his clothes or hands for gunshot residue,” Chas pointed out.
“I didn’t need to test him. That kid can barely tie his own shoes, much less pull off a murder,” Solinsky scoffed.
“Then his life may be in danger. If he didn’t do it, then he truly is a witness, and there may very well be someone out there who wants him dead, did you even bother to think of that, Solinsky?” Chas challenged.
“Nah, silly me, I was too busy trying to solve a murder case,” the detective growled.
“How’s that working out for you?” Chas shot back, turning on his heel.
He needed to find Thomas Cosgrove as quickly as he could—assuming that he wasn’t the killer, Chas hoped the youth hadn’t left town or been assaulted by the killer. In Chas’s book, he was still a suspect. He tapped his smart watch and spoke into it.
“Ringo, text me Thomas Cosgrove’s home address, right away.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
* * *
“What do you have?” Spencer Bengal tossed a bag of warm, fresh donuts onto Ringo’s desk.
The hacker opened the bag, pawing through it with ravenous interest.
“Custard filled? Dude, these are primo,” he nodded appreciatively, pulling out a gigantic chocolate-covered, custard-filled pastry and taking a huge bite.
Slurping chocolate frosting from his fingers, Ringo tapped on his laptop.
“Here,” he said through a mouthful of donut. “Looks like the brother hasn’t been doing that well financially. He gathers investors on speculation for new developments in real estate, and the last couple haven’t sold well at all. So his investors are most likely bugging him for their money.”
“That also means that future deals will be in jeopardy too, because investors will run like rats from a sinking ship,” Spencer mused. “What else do you have?”
“He’s got a small house that he’s upside down on because he refinanced, so now he owes more than the house is worth,” Ringo explained, pointing at the screen with one hand, while using the other to take another massive bite.
“What about their mother?” Spencer asked.
“Mama Bear has expensive taste in nursing homes, as it turns out. The place that she’s in costs quite a bit of money every month,” Ringo sucked the custard out of the remaining half of the donut.
“Where’s the money coming from?” Spencer leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of the computer screen.
“No clue, I’m still chasing that down,” Ringo dug in the bag again. “Lemon filled! Dude, you totally hooked me up today,” he marveled, pulling out the next pastry.
Spencer had picked up on which of the sweet treats were the junk food junkie’s favorites, knowing that his productivity increased when goodies were nearby.
“Well, when you find out, let me know. You got anything else?”
“Oh, yeah, that Thomas kid… the animal-obsessed guy? He just got a pretty sizable sum of money put into his bank account. Never had a deposit that big before.”
“Does it say where the deposit came from?”
Ringo stared at him, chewing, then swallowed.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, man,” he commented.
“Let me know when you find out. You’re doing great,” Spencer reached into his jacket pocket and tossed Ringo a bag of candy.
“You read my mind,” the hacker grinned. “I should have something for you this afternoon.”
“There could be tacos involved if you come up with something good,” Spencer joked.
“Now you’re talking my language,” Ringo stuffed the rest of the donut in his mouth and turned back to his keyboard with renewed determination.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
* * *
Maureen Belsner wore a dress just as severe and drab as the one that she’d been wearing the first time that she’d dropped in to see Missy, but the supervisor who accompanied her, Regina Walker, was dressed in lovely shades of yellow that seemed to reflect her sunny disposition.
“Mr. and Mrs. Beckett, how nice to see you both again,” Regina shook their hands and beamed at the nervous couple.
“You’ve had a visit with them before?” Maureen frowned.
“No, we met at a fundraiser for the new children’s wing at the hospital. The Becketts are some of our best supporters.”
“I see,” there was ice in Maureen’s voice.
“Thank you both for coming over this evening, when Chas and I could both be home,” Missy smiled. “Let’s go out to the patio. I’ve set out some cupcakes and tea for us.”
“You have a pool,” Maureen noticed with displeasure. “We have no idea whether or not Kaylee knows how to swim.”
“Chances are pretty good that she
might,” Regina chimed in. “Lots of parents are giving their little ones swimming lessons as early as six months of age. And if she can’t, well, the Becketts can certainly get her lessons.”
Missy and Chas exchanged a look. Clearly Maureen was still going to try her best to disqualify them. Hopefully Regina would be the voice of reason. Missy was thankful that Regina supervised Maureen, not the other way around.
“Please, help yourself to some cupcakes,” Missy gestured toward the platter in the center of the table, which was heaped with different varieties of cupcakes. “Can I pour you some tea?” she held up the teapot.
“Oh, I’d love some, thank you,” Regina smiled, taking a coconut cupcake from the tray.
“I don’t drink caffeinated beverages after four o’clock. Do you always have an abundance of sweets in your home?” Maureen eyed the platter of delectable treats with disdain.
“Occupational hazard,” Missy smiled, trying to make light of the question.
“Is that a yes?” Maureen raised an eyebrow.
“When Missy knows that we’re going to be having guests, she goes to great lengths to make them feel as welcome as possible. Part of her hospitality generally includes feeding them. She doesn’t always serve cupcakes, but when she does, folks are generally very appreciative,” Chas gazed at the social worker levelly.
Maureen Belsner hadn’t anticipated that response and stared back at him at a loss, while her supervisor smiled and bit into her cupcake.
Once Missy had provided a glass of water—no ice—to Maureen, Regina took the lead in the interview, chatting with Missy and Chas as though they were old friends. An alarm went off on Chas’s watch, and he glanced at it, then frowned.
“Everything okay?” Missy asked, concerned about how the social workers might perceive the interruption.
“Yes. Spencer tracked down Thomas, so I’m going to have to go question him, I’m sorry.”
“Duty calls?” Regina asked pleasantly.
“Indeed. I apologize, but I really have to run,” Chas stood, shook hands with the social workers, and kissed the top of Missy’s head before taking his leave.
Creamy Pumpkin Killer Page 5