Death Takes No Bribes: An Endurance Mystery (Endurance Mysteries Book 3)

by Susan Van Kirk

  “No, only child. His grandparents raised him somewhere else.”

  “Well, it explains why he said he grew up in a small town. He told me Endurance reminded him of those years.” She put her hands in her lap and looked down at them, softly shaking her head. “Poor Jeff. No wonder he’s been so alone. I can’t imagine how anyone could deal with such a horror.”

  TJ’s cell phone began to play the doleful hymn, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.”

  Grace looked up at her friend and raised an eyebrow. “Hymns?”

  “It’s my mom,” said TJ. “I’ll call her back in a few minutes.”

  Grace’s voice indicated a new resolve. “Jeff will be home soon. I think I need to come up with a way to get him to open up to me. That poor man. I know him and he won’t want my pity. TJ, don’t say anything to him.”

  “Don’t worry. Mum’s the word, but you’d better get some answers soon before I get annoyed and take matters into my own hands.” She scowled and uncrossed her arms, pretending to examine a piece of woodwork.

  Grace pulled her phone out of her pocket, checking the time. “Oh, I need to get home. Lettie’s expecting me to show up because we’ve hardly seen each other in the last day or so.”

  “I think you should consider putting her on Maitlin when he returns. She’ll get every detail out of him about his history.” TJ zipped her jacket, then searched for her gloves.

  “Before you go, where are you on the suspect list for John Hardy’s death?”

  TJ started for the doors to the front hall entrance. “The grieving widow, Liz, is high on my list. Lots of life insurance money there just waiting to be transferred into her bank account. Then we have that other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “A covert affair between Hardy and a woman not named ‘Liz.’ ”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Ah, yes, Grace. Hard for you to believe but true. Many a woman scorned has taken matters into her own hands, or hired someone to take care of the ‘till death do us part’ item in the nuptial contract.”

  Grace smiled. “TJ, you’ll rue the day you kept all those guys at arm’s length. When it comes to marriage, you are one cynical woman.”

  “Oh, please. Can you blame me? It takes someone who isn’t trusting to be a detective, which means suspicion seems to spill over into other parts of my life.” She looked around. “Well, Grace, my professional opinion is this house needs a little work. Thanks for the tour. I think I’ll head back to the station.”

  When Grace pulled into her garage on Sweetbriar Court, she was still shocked at what TJ had told her about Jeff’s history. She considered it on the short drive home. What a horrible thing for a boy to understand or live with. How old could he have been at the time? 1961. Maybe eleven or twelve. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about his past. Did they ever catch the people who had done this horrendous murder? What about his grandparents? Could they still be alive? Grace added up the years in her head. Probably not.

  Turning off the car, she sat for a few moments in the garage, feeling the air become colder. She wondered how his parents’ murders might have affected Jeff. Maybe that explained why he had never settled down or married or had children. He was so kind, so affectionate, and when it came to the newspaper, he was decisive about how to increase the readership. Maybe he was driven by this…this incident—what would you call it?—this horrible memory from his past. But that was so long ago. She put her keys in her purse and collected her belongings to take into the house.

  Lettie puttered around Grace’s kitchen as if it were her own because Grace was a terrible cook; she was still hoping to keep Jeff Maitlin ignorant of her secret. Grace loved her sister-in-law, but Lettie could be aggravating. Yes, just a bit.

  The delectable aroma of Lettie’s latest confection hit her nostrils as soon as Grace opened the back door. “Oooooh. What is this lovely smell?”

  “A chicken and rice casserole. I made more than enough, so if TJ comes over again tonight, you’ll have plenty for dinner.”

  Grace pinched a little flake of pastry from the casserole dish cooling on the stove, popped it in her mouth, and said, “How did you know she came over last night?”

  “Oh, please. That is too easy.”

  “Really?”

  “You go to basketball games when Deb or TJ can go too, and you left a basketball program on the hallway table with yesterday’s date. Since you’ve become involved in this murder investigation, you’ve gotten back in touch with the high school folks. After all, Grace, you’d never do a job—not even your newspaper stories—where you couldn’t investigate and do it thoroughly. And, finally, you love a good basketball game. The Endurance Eagles have won everything in sight lately. Plus, check out your horoscope in yesterday’s paper.” She walked over to the table, picked up the Endurance Register, opened several pages, folded them back, and pointed at the horoscope section. This was Lettie’s favorite part of the paper, a section she believed in religiously. “See, look at Libra.”

  Grace picked it up and read aloud, “You need to get out of the house more and talk to people. Try a sporting event to lift your spirits. Keep your wits about you because some people are not what they seem.” She paused a moment, rereading the last sentence.

  “See? Horoscopes know everything,” said Lettie. Suddenly, she jerked her leg sharply in surprise, saying, “There, there. Eliot. I’ll get your lunch too.” TJ’s cat, Eliot Ness, had been commandeered by Lettie, who taught him to do silly cat tricks. This had proven quite helpful on one deadly occasion.

  “Well, I think I’ll go upstairs, freshen up, and change clothes. Meeting Deb and Jill. You and Del going out tonight?”

  She remembered when Lettie first met Del Novak at the kitchen door with an iron skillet in her hands. It was World War III. But eventually he won her over with his soft, quiet ways. “Nah, we’re playing poker with his buddies tonight.”

  “You too? Playing, I mean.”

  “Sure. Who do you think always wins? And besides,” she added, “I bring the scotch and cigars.”

  Chapter Six

  After leaving Lockwood House, TJ Sweeney parked her patrol car in front of Liz Hardy’s. Grace was meeting Jill Cunningham and Deb O’Hara at The Depot for lunch. Gnawing away at TJ’s thoughts was her concern for her old teacher, mentor, and now friend. With this murder investigation on, TJ was torn in two directions: finding the killer or killers, and keeping an eye on Grace, who always managed to get into the thick of things without regard for her own safety. It wasn’t that Grace was a child who needed looking after; she just believed too much in the goodness of people. TJ admired her empathy, but she also knew it had often resulted in Grace’s good intentions leading her straight to disaster.

  “See, here I am again,” she said out loud to her windshield. “I need to think about Liz Hardy, and instead I’m worried about Grace.” She pulled her keys out of the ignition, checked for her badge, touched her pocket where she kept a notepad and pen, and looked at the Hardy’s house. It was a brick, two-story home in the newer section of town. Now in the winter, the flower gardens on either side of the porch were covered with snow and a shovel had been leaned against the side of the front steps. In the yard was an abandoned sled, deserted for some time by the looks of the snow crusted on it. The sidewalk needed some attention, but TJ figured the Hardy household was a bit disorganized since they were dealing with grief at this address. She wanted to come during the week to question Ms. Hardy because the children would be in school.

  TJ lifted her hand to knock on the front door of the closed-in porch, but then she saw a doorbell. It rang with a Jingle Bells melody—evidently unchanged since Christmas—the last notes echoing in the cold. As those musical notes died away, Liz Hardy’s face, wearing a pinched expression, peeked out the window of the door inside the porch. Well, thought TJ, at least she recognizes me. She ushered the detective in, indicating an area in the vestibule where she could leave her boots and hang up her coat.


  “Detective Sweeney. How nice to see you. I figured I would be at the top of your list. Isn’t it always the discontented spouse?” She gave TJ a studied, practiced smile, indicating a chair in the living room, and TJ sat in the wing chair, close to a fireplace with no fire and an almost empty firewood rack nearby. The house was totally quiet: no music, no television, and no sounds whatsoever. TJ looked around. The room held matching chairs, a sofa, an ornate mirror on one wall, and pictures of the children on various tables. On the coffee table were magazines, three or four coffee table books, and a small pile of unopened mail.

  “Yes, ma’am. I stopped by because I have a few concerns to address. How are you getting along?”

  Liz Hardy sat down across from TJ, pulling together the sides of an expensive cardigan sweater for warmth. “As you might expect. Lots of legal estate questions after my husband’s death for me to deal with.” She paused, crossing her arms in front of her. “May I assume you are closer to finding his killer?” She stared at TJ as if she wished her to come up with the killer’s name on the spot.

  “Making progress, Ma’am.”

  “Oh, call me ‘Liz.’ ‘Ma’am’ sounds like an old lady.”

  TJ looked up from her notepad. “All right. Liz it is. Let’s start with your husband’s behavior just prior to his—his death.”

  Liz Hardy proffered an ingratiating smile that told TJ the woman had already considered how she was going to handle this expected interrogation. “Oh, Detective. You don’t have to put on kid gloves for me. John and I hadn’t been sleeping together for months before his death. Furthermore, I could care less about what you think of my lack of grief.” She frowned and looked up a moment as if considering what she would say next. “Before his death—murder—he was just like he usually was. The good, highly principled, respected leader of Endurance High School.” Her last few words were heavily laced in sarcasm.

  “Ma’am? Er—Liz. What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “My husband, Detective, was having an affair with one of his employees, for lack of a more descriptive word.”

  The woman’s voice was tightly controlled, TJ thought. “You know this because—?”

  “I confronted him, of course. He’d been spending less and less time at home. The children began to think of him as a stranger. Oh, he always had an excuse…his job called him away…he had to be at an out-of-town basketball game…he had a meeting with other principals in the conference…blah, blah, blah.” She waved a hand dismissively.

  “Did you fight about his absences?”

  “Fight? I wouldn’t exactly call it fighting. I yelled while he simply put on his coat and left. After all, that’s the way men handle things, isn’t it?”

  “But you said you confronted him.”

  “I certainly did.” TJ watched Liz Hardy’s eyes narrow and her voice grow more intense. “I spent years working my fingers to the bone to put that man through graduate school so he could have an administrative job which would pay more than peanuts. It would mean more money for us, and he could move up to a superintendent job eventually. So how did he repay me? He had a fling, sleeping with this sleazy teacher who was on his own staff. She’s married. Why did she think it would be fine to break up my home?”

  “What proof did you have that he was having this affair?”

  She walked over to the fireplace mantel and picked up a cigarette from an old-fashioned box, lighting it with a match that she threw in the fireplace. “I don’t often smoke. Never in front of the children. But sometimes I just need something to lower my anger level. To answer your question, I knew about the affair because earlier that week—was it only four days ago?—I got a letter in the mail. Oh, it wasn’t exactly handwritten. It was high drama.” She flicked some ashes into an ashtray she produced from the mantel.

  “You know, those movies where a blackmailer sends a note to someone with letters cut out of a magazine. Well, that is exactly how this letter had been put together. It said John was having an affair right under my nose. At first I thought it was a joke, someone playing a prank on the principal’s wife. Then I began to consider the possibilities—all those nights out when he came home ridiculously late. Can you imagine for one minute how I felt? Do you realize how small this town is? I’m sure the gentle, understanding townsfolk would think it was my fault. I wasn’t making him happy enough, or I wasn’t giving him what he wanted. I can hear the gossip now.”

  “Do you still have this letter?” TJ asked.

  A sweeping gesture with her arms accompanied her voice. “Why would I keep it? For old time’s sake? Because I’m sentimental? I didn’t keep it. I confronted him with it, and then threw it in the fire.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  She smiled like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. Then she looked directly at TJ again, her eyes cold and determined. “Of course he denied it…at first. But John was never good at lying or poker. I knew it was true the minute I saw it in his eyes, and he knew I saw it. So, he confessed. Yes, he’d had an affair, but he’d end it. Break it off. After all, as I said, it’s a small town—he’d probably lose his job. A teacher like Marilyn Atkins might get away with it in this day and age, but not a philandering principal. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You do that. But don’t expect to come near me again. After all, I don’t know where you’ve been, so I don’t need to get any of those STDs from some whore.’ ” To emphasize her point, she ground out the stub of the cigarette in the ashtray and turned toward the fireplace, her head down.

  TJ simply looked at her rigid back, waiting for her to continue, the silence lengthening between them.

  Then Liz Hardy turned around and said, “I know, looking back now it was a brutal thing to say. But I meant it. He was willing to throw away twenty-two years of marriage on a little trollop like her.”

  “Was that why you came to the school Sunday, the day he was killed?”

  “Exactly. I knew they were together. I was sure of it, and I didn’t want to confront him in front of the children, so I figured I’d catch them together and tell him our marriage was over, done.”

  “And—?”

  “Her car was there in the parking lot. I had a key to the doors in the building—he had an extra key at home. When I got to his office he was alone, writing something. I asked him if he’d ended it. He said ‘yes.’ ‘Good,’ I said. Then I added a lot of words I didn’t mean. But I was so angry, so mad at his betrayal. When he stood up and came across the room, I picked up the closest thing—I think it was some kind of wooden thing, a nameplate—and I threw it toward him. It hit a file cabinet, landing on the floor, not even grazing him. I told him to stay away from me. Then. Forever. I was so humiliated, so angry.”

  “How did you leave him?”

  She stared at TJ, confusion on her face. “You mean, was he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, unfortunately. I stormed out of his office and left the way I’d come in.

  “So, alive?”

  Once again, her eyes narrowed and she forced her voice to be calm. “Of course. Really, Detective Sweeney, I’m not a murderer, despite what you might think.”

  “Do you remember what time this encounter was at the school?”

  She took a deep breath. “Sometime in the noonish area. My daughter was at a friend’s, and my son was watching a basketball game on television. I believe I slipped out around noon.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Truly, Detective? You expect me to remember? I have no idea.”

  “Did you take anything with you to this meeting?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A box or a bag or your purse?”

  “Why would it matter?”

  “Answer the question, Ms. Hardy.”

  “Liz.” Again, the smile.

  “Liz.”

  She had long ago dumped the remains of the first cigarette into the fireplace; now she lit a second cigarette from the box on the mantel and smoothly blew out the s
moke, saying, “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Why? Does someone say I did?”

  “Just trying to get the whole picture.”

  “Oh, you mean did I happen to come upon some poison and carry it along with me, asking him to take it?”

  TJ smiled now. “I believe you’re a little smarter than that, Ms. Hardy.”

  This time she didn’t correct TJ’s use of her last name. She drew deeply on her cigarette, blowing out a smooth cloud of smoke.

  TJ said, “Tell me, Ms. Hardy, about your husband’s will.”

  “The usual. I get his estate to help raise our kids. Alone.”

  TJ jotted down her answer, mostly delaying her next question. “Life insurance? Did he have any?”

  Now Liz Hardy threw the second cigarette in the fireplace and sat down across from TJ. “You obviously already know or you wouldn’t be asking me, would you?” Her smile again.

  “I do happen to know your husband took a life insurance policy out about six months before his death. Two million dollars, with you as the beneficiary.”

  “Correct. With all the school shootings in this country, I believed he owed it to his family to make sure we weren’t destitute. You know, they often go after the principal, these shooters.”

  “I assume the policy payment is being held up pending the investigation?”

  “You assume correctly. Two for two. So, if you’d hurry up, get on with this investigation, and find out who really killed my husband, you would assure my children don’t starve.”

  “Oh, please, Ms. Hardy. You worked before you met your husband. How did you put him through graduate school? You must have had a job.”

  “I did.”

  “And—?”

  “My job?”

  “Yes, what did you do?”

  Again, a silence fell between them. TJ waited, watching the question play out on Liz Hardy’s face. She seemed reluctant to answer it. But then she looked TJ in the eyes, daring her to accuse the scorned woman of murder. “I was a pharmacist. I met him when I was in pharmacy school.”