Hit and Run

by Sandra Balzo

  AnnaLise raised the hood of her slicker against the wind. Lacey was right about the temperature. Late November in the High Country was always quirky and now there was definite moisture in the frigid mountain air. ‘Are we walking?’

  Over her shoulder, her friend responded, ‘You kidding?’ Then Joy strode to her BMW and unlocked it. ‘It’s miles.’

  ‘And miles,’ AnnaLise echoed as she got into the passenger seat. ‘But then why did we have to don these?’ She plucked at the slicker.

  ‘Just how long did you live in these mountains?’ Joy asked, starting the car. ‘The weather changes in an instant so you go nowhere – not even the grocery store – without the proper layers. If you don’t want to wear it, put the thing in the back seat.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ AnnaLise stayed silent as Joy backed the BMW out from between a pair of SUVs. When they were gliding down the newly re-surfaced driveway, she finally said, ‘We should think about how we’re going to do this.’

  ‘I already have.’ Joy stopped at the end of the long drive, then turned left. ‘You hold him down and I’ll beat him with a rubber hose.’

  Rubber hose? And Joy called AnnaLise a throwback. ‘Why are you going counterclockwise instead of clockwise around the lake?’

  ‘Same distance and these roads are better. Besides, we don’t have to go through town where somebody could see us.’

  AnnaLise stared at her. ‘Honest to God, you’re scaring me.’

  Joy shrugged. ‘Just being cautious. Now, what’s your plan?’

  ‘I guess we’ll have to play it by ear.’ The journalist didn’t remind her friend that this little excursion had been her idea. It was like talking to a rock.

  A yellow, rubber-covered rock.

  ‘My, my – these days it’s against the law to own binoculars?’ Roy Smoaks asked mildly.

  ‘If it were we’d have sicked the Pitchfords on you,’ said Joy.

  The four of them – Smoaks, Bobby, Joy and AnnaLise – were in the living room of Bradenham. Its windows, not nearly as large as those of Hart’s across the way, still provided a magnificent view of the lake.

  Bobby Bradenham had taken their damp slickers and hung them on a rustic hat rack. Then he moved a pizza box from a couch cushion so the two women could sit. The coffee table in front of them was littered with chip bags and beer cans.

  Now Bobby held up his hands. ‘Let’s not snipe at each other, all right?’ He turned to AnnaLise. ‘What exactly is it that you’re asking?’

  She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure. As you’re both certainly aware by now, Dickens Hart was found dead yesterday morning.’

  Bobby nodded. ‘I’m very sorry about that, AnnaLise. I should have called you.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ve been’ – a glance at Smoaks, as the man dropped his sorry butt aggressively into a delicate armchair – ‘busy.’

  ‘Not quite as busy as you folks.’ This from Smoaks, who lifted his muddy boots to the corner of the coffee table, dislodging one of the chip sacks onto the floor.

  The comment reminded AnnaLise of something Smoaks had said the day before. Actually, two things. ‘I know you shot out Dickens’ window.’

  ‘Now how would you know that? It could have been anybody.’

  ‘I “know that” because of what you knew that I didn’t tell you. You said it was likely a hunter getting in his “last hurrah” before the sun went down.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, how did you know the window was shot out at dusk?’

  For the first time, Smoaks looked uncomfortable. ‘Maybe I saw it. I do have those binoculars you keep harping about.’

  OK, time to move on to item two: ‘What’s “kerplunk”?’

  Bobby looked surprised. ‘Kerplunk? I’ve never heard of it.’

  But AnnaLise’s attention was on Smoaks. ‘You also said yesterday that “we folks” were early risers and asked if I’d been playing “kerplunk” at the pier. I assumed it was a game like skipping rocks. But it’s not, is it?’

  ‘Well, now, I was just making polite conversation.’ Smoaks grin was wide enough to expose his gold tooth. ‘You know, kerplunk. Like “splash”?’

  ‘The sound of somebody tossing something into—’ Then it struck AnnaLise. Maybe the bottom of the lake was, indeed, where the missing overnight bag lay.

  ‘Who was the somebody?’ Joy contributed. ‘And the something?’

  Smoaks linked his hands in the air above his head and stretched, letting out a crisp fart in the process. ‘Now that I reckon I can’t answer.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Joy waved vigorously at the air in front of her nose. ‘Aren’t your spy-glasses strong enough?’

  ‘Oh, no, they’re high-powered all right.’ A lecher’s smile. ‘Just like me. Problem is, though, I heard the kerplunk, but she was turned away from me by the time I got the lenses focused.’

  AnnaLise felt hopeful. ‘So, it was a—’

  Smoaks lowered his feet to the floor. ‘Broad? Think so, less’n it was a shrimp of a swinging dick.’

  AnnaLise considered both the answer and the source before asking simply, ‘Notice anything else? Build? What she was wearing?’

  ‘Now, much as I appreciate giving a comely woman the once-over,’ Smoaks said, leering at both of them and getting to his feet, ‘I can’t say much about this particular one.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ Joy looked like she wanted a reason to deck the man.

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Bobby looked puzzled.

  ‘Not that I don’t want to, Grandson of Mine.’ Smoaks picked up one of the beer cans with his right hand and shook it. Finding the thing empty, he crumpled it with one impressive squeeze. ‘Cuz’n she was wearing one of those.’

  He tossed the can at the hat rack and it bounced off a yellow rubber slicker. ‘Score!’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘I don’t see it.’

  Joy put her hand out to steady AnnaLise, who was hanging off the ladder of Hart’s Head’s fishing pier, scrutinizing the water below. ‘You’re sure this is where Smoaks meant?’

  ‘He said a figure in a slicker dropped something – “kerplunk” – into the water at the end of the pier. Given our clear, spring-fed lake here, I can see all the way to the bottom. And there’s nothing.’ Despair was rising in her voice. ‘Certainly not a bright floral bag.’

  ‘Maybe Smoaks is lying.’

  ‘There is that.’ AnnaLise scaled the top two rungs of the ladder before swinging herself up and onto the pier. ‘This would be so much easier if we could pin the whole thing on him.’

  ‘We’d also have to tie him to Debbie or somebody else in the house,’ Joy reminded her, still staring down at the water. ‘Maybe the person didn’t weigh the bag down and the waves took it away.’

  AnnaLise brightened. ‘That means it’ll eventually show up on the beach across from Mama’s restaurant.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Joy said. ‘Or … maybe the woman did weigh it down but heaved it as far as she could, and we’ll need a scuba diver to find it.’

  Back to bleak. ‘In near-December water temperatures?’

  ‘They must have suits for that, right? I mean, they go after stupid ice fishermen who “kerplunk” themselves during the season.’

  ‘Yes, but if the diver scours the lake bottom within “heaving” range and comes up empty?’

  Joy said, ‘OK, voice of gloom and doom, let’s go back inside. I’m getting the creepy-crawlies.’

  ‘From being here?’ AnnaLise asked.

  ‘Hell, no.’ Joy gave a shiver. ‘From having been in the same room as Roy Smoaks.’

  Once through the front door, AnnaLise resumed her hunt for the authorities, while Joy opted for a nap.

  Given that AnnaLise hadn’t spotted the overnight bag at the bottom of the lake, she planned to relate only her first theory – that the call to Debbie Dobyns’ cellphone was not only made from the house, but receive
d in it. No need to bombard Coy and Charity with too many theories at once and look desperate.

  Which, of course, was how she increasingly felt.

  Charity Pitchford was sitting behind Dickens Hart’s desk when AnnaLise stuck her head in. ‘Can I come in?’

  Charity looked up from writing yet another something in her notebook. ‘It’s your house now.’

  ‘Through no fault of mine,’ AnnaLise said, not bothering to sit down. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking. We know that a call came in to Debbie Dobyns’ cell early Thanksgiving morning from this house, correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Is there any reason why it couldn’t have been made by Debbie herself? You could check the GPS on her phone, or—’

  Charity pushed back in the chair, making it squeal like a metallic pig. ‘Ms Dobyns called … herself?’

  ‘Yes. Think about it.’ AnnaLise put her palms on the desk and leaned forward. ‘She conks Hart, maybe in self-defense. She’s still in the master suite with his body, trying to figure out what to do.’

  ‘And Ms Dobyns stays there for what must have been another five, even six hours? Why?’

  ‘First of all, assuming our Debbie’s not a stone-cold killer, she’s trying to calm down, think things through.’ Something else suddenly occurred to AnnaLise. ‘Or, and maybe more likely, she’d been drugged. Hart gave her the wine with the Rohypnol, making—’

  Charity frowned. ‘And just how would you know we found that?’

  ‘You asked Nicole if Chef Debbie had mentioned roofies. You can’t honestly think that this stuff doesn’t get around, even among relative strangers. This may be a big house, but Dickens’ death is the six-hundred-pound gorilla in the bedroom.’

  A resigned sigh. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Anyway, Debbie realizes she’s been drugged and – outraged – slugs Hart with the champagne bottle.’

  ‘And then passes out.’ It wasn’t a question – Charity seemed to be seriously considering the possibility.

  ‘And wakes up hours later, remembering – or not, depending on a roofie’s power – what happened. Either way, she’d want out.’

  ‘And to remove any evidence of her ever being there.’

  AnnaLise sensed something. ‘Like fingerprints?’

  Charity hesitated, and then nodded. ‘The glass with the sediment only had one set of fingerprints on it, and according to the Las Vegas police they’re not hers.’

  AnnaLise looked at her own fingertips, still smudged with ink. ‘Are you saying they’re mine?’

  ‘Not surprising, seeing as you told us about carrying it in. For what it’s worth, there were no usable prints on the other glass. Or the bottle.’

  AnnaLise shook her head. ‘But there should have been Nicole’s and mine, at least. And Hart’s for that matter. He tasted the wine in the first place.’

  ‘Does seem odd now, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Somebody wiped down the bottle and one glass, but not the other? Why?’

  ‘Time will tell, as it generally does.’

  AnnaLise barely heard Charity’s observation. ‘So, we have Debbie in the master bedroom, waking up after being drugged and finding herself with Dickens’ body. She cleans up, but misses … Wait, that unwiped glass was on the stairs to Hart’s library. In fact, the top step. With the trauma and the Rohypnol, Debbie certainly could have forgotten to check up there.’

  The police officer cocked her head. ‘Except I’ve just told you that her fingerprints aren’t on the glass.’ Then a level gaze. ‘Sure you haven’t … forgotten that you carried it up there?’

  For a panicked moment, AnnaLise wondered. But then, no. She was sure she’d left both glasses on Hart’s dresser. What happened to them after that was anybody’s guess.

  ‘I’m sure. And as to the call I supposedly made to Chef Debbie’s cellphone, is it possible she called from the phone in Hart’s bedroom? She’d have had to turn her ringer off, so it didn’t—’

  But Charity was raising her hand up and toward AnnaLise like a school-crossing guard to an oncoming car. ‘Only there is no telephone in that bedroom. We checked.’

  Step back and start over. ‘So Debbie used another extension. Maybe here in Dickens’ office or … yes, the kitchen. There’s an old wall phone. I remember because Mama slammed the refrigerator door so hard she made the receiver fall off it. Having worked in there, Debbie would certainly have seen the thing.’

  ‘And used it to make the call,’ Charity took up. ‘She wouldn’t even have needed to talk, just stay on the line long enough that it would appear that a terse conversation took place and she was fired.’

  ‘What do you think?’ AnnaLise asked.

  The officer cracked the first smile AnnaLise had seen from her in some time. ‘I think that it’s certainly worth telling the county detectives tomorrow.’

  AnnaLise resisted pumping her fist in victory. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank anybody,’ Charity said. ‘All we’re doing as the Sutherton town police is maintaining the crime scene. And collecting information to provide the county with when they get here.’

  ‘Still, I appreciate you’re being comprehensive. Did you say the sheriff’s department will be here tomorrow?’ AnnaLise pursed her lips, thinking. ‘Which is … Saturday? I’m losing track of time in all this.’

  ‘I wish your guests were,’ Charity said, putting away her notepad and rising. ‘I’ve been asked no less than ten times how soon they all can leave.’

  She tamped her pen into a narrow pocket on the sleeve of her uniform. ‘All of a sudden, I’m getting the impression these people would gladly let you fry if it meant they could get back to their dental practice or brokerage by Monday. And maybe as heirs.’

  Dental practice/brokerage heirs. ‘You’re talking about my – perhaps – half-brothers, Eddie Boccaccio and Tyler Puckett?’

  ‘And their mothers, who we’ve also spoken to, along with everybody else. Apparently the “boys” aren’t doing particularly well financially.’

  AnnaLise wasn’t surprised that the police had interviewed Rose and Lucinda, but she did find it interesting that Charity included the women amongst those willing to let AnnaLise ‘fry.’

  A mother/son team, with the mother diposing of the bag in the lake? Rose, at least, had to be a longshot despite admitting she managed to ‘hoist herself out’ of the wheelchair on occasion. And she’d admitted to being in Dickens’ room the night of the murder to snag the marijuana, albeit well before the crime was committed. And as for Lucinda … ‘I heard that the market has been unkind to Tyler. What with all the ups and downs—’

  ‘He’s had more downs than ups, from what we’ve been able to find out, his clients even more so.’

  ‘You’ve been looking into Tyler?’ AnnaLise asked. ‘And Eddie, too?’

  ‘The junkie dentist? Of course.’ The officer lifted her uniform jacket.

  AnnaLise sensed that Charity, as forthcoming as she’d been, had nevertheless reached her limit. ‘Any word from Chuck?’ AnnaLise asked, trailing behind her and into the foyer.

  ‘Not surprisingly, our chief called in practically the moment he got off that plane in Ireland,’ Charity said, shrugging into her jacket. ‘His mother’s the one who booked their flights, so they stopped in Rome, Paris and London.’

  ‘Wow. They visited each of those cities?’

  ‘More like each of those airports, from what I gather. The time on the ground was barely long enough to pass through security and high-tail it to the next flight.’

  ‘Yet, Mrs Greystone will always have bragging rights,’ AnnaLise said. ‘After all, how many people in Sutherton can say they’ve visited Rome, Paris, London and Dublin?’

  ‘Not to mention all in less than twenty-four hours,’ Charity acknowledged. ‘Anyway, once the chief picked up his messages and realized what was going on here, we had to do some heavy talking to keep him from flying directly home.’

  ‘Or indirectly, if Mrs Greystone had anything to sa
y about it.’ AnnaLise was making light of the situation, but there was a part of her that desperately wanted the police chief back in Sutherton. Though having Chuck Greystone and Roy Smoaks in the same county, much less the same town or even room, admittedly might not be the best idea. ‘So you convinced him to stay, I hope?’

  ‘We did. Told him we were already doing everything the way he would.’ Charity opened the front door. ‘Thoroughly and professionally.’

  ‘Again, thanks for that,’ said AnnaLise.

  ‘And again, none necessary.’ Charity stepped out onto the porch.

  ‘You’ll be back tomorrow?’

  ‘We will, with the county. Fearon is pulling another long shift here tonight.’

  ‘Poor guy.’

  ‘Hey, he volunteered. Seems the man can’t get enough of Mama’s cooking.’

  AnnaLise smiled and was about to close the door when Charity stopped her. ‘One word of advice?’

  ‘Any I can get.’

  ‘Not everybody here is your friend, and many stand to gain something with Dickens Hart gone. Some would benefit even more if you were gone as well.’

  Charity flipped on her parade hat, then straightened and tugged it down onto her forehead, as though she were about to brave a windstorm.

  AnnaLise said, ‘Thanks, Charity. But from our conversation just now, I’m not quite as worried about being hauled off to jail.’ Operative word: quite.

  Charity Pitchford smiled once more, but this time grimly, and glanced around as if for eavesdroppers. ‘AnnaLise, when I said “gone,” I meant one way,’ she pointed an index finger to the police logo on the crown of her hat, ‘or … another.’

  The officer drew the same index finger across her own throat from ear to ear.

  TWENTY-NINE

  AnnaLise Griggs shut the door, shuddering more than the solid wood did thudding into its frame.

  All right, settle down. And make at least a quick, mental list of who might consider acting against you in Charity’s ‘another way.’

  The obvious people who would benefit most with Dickens Hart dead and AnnaLise out of the estate picture were Eddie Boccaccio, Tyler Puckett and, by extension, their mothers. Neither man, according to Charity, was doing well financially.