Her explanation for the dinner, the yacht, and the game made sense, but the suicide conclusion didn’t necessarily follow. Val had seen another of Otto’s passions play out on Saturday night—a desire to expose the wrongs of others. “Otto put several people on the spot during his mystery game. Did he always entertain guests by making them uncomfortable?”
Stacy flicked her wrist. “They were all playing their roles to the hilt.”
Her phone played a tune from the counter where she’d left it. “Excuse me.” Stacy got up and answered it. “What’s up, Trey? . . . Okay. I’ll be right there.” She hung up and turned to Val. “Trey heard a loud bang. He thought it might be a gunshot. It came from the house on the corner.”
Damian and Louisa’s place? Val and Stacy dashed outside.
Chapter 18
Val ran as fast as she could to keep up with the longer-legged Stacy. They reached the house on the corner at the same time and rushed up the driveway. Trey stood on the doorstep of the brick two-story house, a lanky, gray-haired man beside him. Gretel sniffed around the door.
The older man grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Wailing came from inside.
Gretel broke free, zipped into the house, and disappeared to the left.
“Gretel!” Trey roared. He went in after the dog.
The tall man, Stacy, and Val followed. A door in the foyer was open. Barking and moaning came from beyond it. Val rushed into the garage.
To the right of the doorway, Val saw the legs of a man who was lying faceup on the concrete floor. Her view of the man’s torso and face were blocked by Louisa, who was bending over him.
“Damian!” she cried. “Talk to me. Damian!”
The older man slipped between her and the black Mercedes in the garage, bent down, and picked up Damian’s wrist, apparently checking for a pulse. He turned to Trey. “Get the dog out of here and call 911. I’m a doctor.”
Trey picked up the leash and tugged the dog back to the foyer.
Louisa looked up. “Please save him. Oh, God. Damian.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Val spotted a small revolver on the floor near Damian. Had he shot himself?
Stacy said, “I’m certified in CPR. Can I help, Doctor?”
“Okay, you stay.” He looked at Val. “You take her out of here.” He pointed to Louisa.
As Stacy coaxed Louisa away from Damian, Val glimpsed his blood-soaked shirt. She put her arm around Louisa’s shoulder and hurried her into the foyer.
Trey stood there, wide-eyed and pale, holding Gretel’s leash tightly and fumbling with his phone.
Val pointed to the front door. “Make that call outside.”
“Okay.” He left with the dog.
Val started to take Louisa to the living room, but then noticed the kitchen at the end of the hall. A better place, farther from the garage. She led Louisa there and sat her down at a tiled table in the corner.
Unlike the last kitchen Val had visited, this one was sparkling clean. Nothing in the sink. No fingerprints on the stainless steel appliances. It would have looked sterile except for its country kitchen touches. Ceramic hens and chicks sat on the windowsill. The curtains featured roosters. Even Louisa’s old-fashioned cobbler apron had chickens on it.
Val reached up for one of the glasses hanging upside down from an under-cabinet rack. She filled the glass with water and brought it to Louisa, who stared out the window with vacant eyes. “Take a sip, Louisa.”
Louisa didn’t move. She could probably use something stronger—brandy, whiskey, or even wine. With stemmed glasses so near, could wine be far away?
Val checked the refrigerator. No luck. She went over to the breakfront. Its shelves held family photos, a few cookbooks, and poultry-themed items—salt and pepper shakers shaped like chickens, a teapot and a sugar bowl with rooster-head tops. Val opened the doors to the cabinet and found assorted glasses and some hard stuff to pour in them. Bypassing the scotch and gin, she selected a bottle of apple brandy. She filled a snifter with it and took it to the table.
Louisa gulped the brandy. Her eyes watered. “Damian?” She started to stand up.
Val held on to her arm. “Sit down. The doctor is with him.” She gave Louisa time for a few more sips of the apple brandy and then said, “What happened in the garage?”
“I found a gun in Damian’s car. He came into the garage and said to put it down. He wouldn’t tell me why he had it. He demanded I give it to him. I told him to stay back, but he didn’t.” She verged on hysteria. “I thought if he took it, he’d shoot me.”
Val still didn’t understand how he’d ended up with a bullet hole in him. “Did he try to take the gun away from you?”
Louisa nodded. “He grabbed it. I wouldn’t let go. Then it went off and he fell.” She covered her face and sobbed.
What could Val say to calm her down? She put her hand on Louisa’s shoulder. “Doctors perform miracles these days. Damian may be just fine.”
Louisa looked up. “God, I hope you’re right.” She pulled a tissue from the patch pocket of her apron and blotted her tears.
Once the EMTs and the police arrived, Val would lose her chance to explore the gaps in Louisa’s story. Val poured more tongue-loosener into Louisa’s glass and said, “Why did you think Damian would shoot you?”
“I’ll show you.” Louisa stood up, held on to the back of her chair to steady herself, and then turned toward the breakfront. She pulled a slim cookbook off the shelf, Microwave Dinners for Two, and removed a business envelope tucked inside the book. “This came in yesterday’s mail. I hid it where he’d never look.”
She brought the envelope to the table. It had no return address, just a printed mailing label with her name and address. She took a sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolded it, and put it on the table.
Val read the single line of printed, italicized text at the top of the page: Your husband shot Otto. Find his gun before he uses it on you.
Huh? Val could easily believe Damian shot Otto, but not that he’d have kept the gun. Who could have seen him shoot Otto? Trey, Jerome, and possibly Stacy were outside at the same time as Damian. They had no reason to hold back what they’d witnessed. Therefore, the letter writer was lying either to implicate an innocent man or to play a nasty trick. A trick that had turned deadly because Louisa was primed to believe her husband wanted to get rid of her.
Louisa sniffed. “Now you see why I wouldn’t let Damian have the gun. I was afraid he’d shoot me, throw me in the trunk, and dump my body where no one would find me.”
Val watched Louisa wrap her arms around herself as if an icy wind had just hit her. Why had a trunk popped into her mind? Because that’s where hit men stowed bodies, or because she knew what had happened to Val? “Don’t touch the letter or the envelope again, Louisa. The police might be able to get fingerprints from it.”
Louisa dropped the envelope on the table. “I didn’t call them yesterday because I thought it was a sick joke. I turned the house upside down and didn’t find a gun. Today I got a chance to search Damian’s car, when I thought he was in the shower. I found the gun under the passenger’s seat.” She clutched her head. “What will I tell my children?”
“Are they nearby?” When Louisa shook her head, Val continued, “Is there someone you can call to stay with you until your children get here?”
“My parents are on a trip to Hawaii, but my aunt isn’t far away. She’ll come over.”
Val picked up sirens in the distance. “The ambulance is almost here.”
“At last!” Louisa stood up. “I’ll splash water on my face and go to the door.”
She went into the powder room off the hall near the kitchen.
Val hurried past it toward the foyer.
Stacy emerged from the door that led to the garage, saw Val, and shook her head. “The doctor tried his best. He’s their neighbor, a retired surgeon, so he knew what to do. I’m going to sit down.” She went
into the living room, looking rattled.
Val opened the front door. Trey was on the sidewalk, holding Gretel’s leash as she sniffed around the shrubs planted near the street. Val told him what Stacy had said.
He shook his head. “I didn’t think Damian would make it. He looked bad.”
“Quick question for you. When is the mail delivered on this street?”
“Between two and three. Why?”
“Just curious.”
The timing of the mail delivery explained why Louisa, so calm when she’d eaten lunch at the café yesterday, had turned nervous by the time she visited Granddad late in the afternoon. In between, she’d gone home and read her mail. No wonder she’d asked Granddad to find out if the police suspected Damian of Otto’s murder.
Val went back inside the house as the siren became deafening. Louisa emerged from the powder room, her eyes still red-rimmed from crying. She’d combed her hair, though, and shed her apron. “I’ll go meet the ambulance.”
On the way out, her head turned toward the closed door to the garage.
Val paused outside the living room. Stacy stood in front of the sofa at the far end of the room, her back to the foyer. Damian and Louisa’s wedding portrait hung on the wall over the sofa. Even from across the room, Val could see the picture well enough to confirm what Chatty had told her two days ago—that Louisa looked more attractive in middle age than she had when younger, and that Damian looked the same except for a few gray hairs.
As Val crossed the room for a better look at the portrait, Stacy aimed her phone at it. Was she snapping a picture of it?
Stacy turned, nodded to Val, and walked past her without a word.
Val trailed her into the hall. “Wait a minute, Stacy. Did you just—?”
Stacy slipped out the front door seconds before the EMTs rushed in.
Val pointed them toward the door to the garage and stopped Louisa from following them. “You can’t do anything in there.” Val led her to an armchair in the living room. Louisa sat there, staring at her wedding portrait.
The chief came into the house and beckoned to Val.
She pointed to Louisa in the living room. “She may be in shock. I gave her brandy.”
He turned to the young officer who’d followed him into the house. “Stay with the woman in the living room, Wade, and get the EMTs to check her over when they’re finished in there.” He pointed to the garage. “I need a quick rundown of what happened here, Val. Where can we talk?”
“In the kitchen.” She gave him a two-minute summary.
He then called for a crime scene unit, went to the living room to talk to Louisa, and sent Officer Wade to the kitchen to take down Val’s statement. The young officer wrote notes as Val did a brain dump of every detail she could remember since walking into the Browns’ house. When she was finished, the chief came in and told her to leave by the kitchen door to avoid being seen by the neighbors. He cautioned her to say nothing about the incident to the media beyond what the police made public.
On the way home, she thought about how much had changed in the last two hours. When she’d arrived to talk to Stacy, Damian had been at the top of her suspect list. But the anonymous note pointing to him as the murderer made her less sure of his guilt. It raised more questions than it answered. Who’d sent the note? Who had a vested interest in seeing Damian blamed for Otto’s death?
As usual, Granddad would have his own take on the anonymous note and the shooting. Would he pull at the same loose threads that bothered her?
Back home she found him in the kitchen sharpening his fish knife.
“I only caught one small croaker today.” He scraped the knife along the whetstone. “Not enough for both of us for dinner, but we can have it as an appetizer.”
“You can eat the whole thing. I’m having dinner with Gunnar.” She glanced at her watch. Forty-five minutes until Gunnar expected her—enough time to bring Granddad up to date. “I’ve just come from the Browns’ house. Damian’s dead. Louisa shot him.”
Granddad stopped scraping the blade on the stone. “I told you there’d be trouble between those two.”
“But you never expected Damian to be the victim.”
“I sure didn’t. How did it go down?”
As he sharpened the knife, Val summarized what she’d seen and heard at the Browns’ house. He stopped scraping when she told him about the anonymous letter. “The chief doesn’t want any information leaking about the letter or what happened at the house.”
“I’ll keep it under my hat.” He flipped over the knife and scraped the other side of the blade against the stone. “The police will look for fingerprints on the letter.”
“They probably won’t find any except Louisa’s. With all the CSI shows on TV, people know enough to wear gloves when doing something underhanded. If the sender saw Damian shoot Otto, why not tell the police instead of writing the letter?”
“The usual reason folks keep stuff like that from the police is for blackmail, but that wasn’t a blackmail note.”
“Exactly, so the letter writer didn’t see Damian shoot Otto. Of course, Damian might have shot Otto without anyone seeing him. Or someone else murdered Otto and wanted the police to focus their investigation on Damian.”
Granddad turned on the faucet and rinsed the knife he’d just sharpened. “The murderer could have done that with an anonymous tip to the police hotline. There must have been a reason to route it through Louisa.”
“Possibly to cause trouble between her and Damian. They’re tied to the poultry business, which Trey and his mother detest.”
Granddad frowned as he inspected the blade he’d just sharpened. “Could one of them have killed Otto?”
“Trey had the opportunity and a motive. He was out of the saloon a long time and had a big grudge against Otto.” As she removed clean plates from the dishwasher, she told Granddad about Trey’s seasickness and Otto’s demand that he spend more time on the water to get over it.
Granddad scraped the knife against the whetstone, using short strokes. “That’s a rotten thing Otto did, but it was years ago. Besides, if Trey killed him for that reason, he wouldn’t have told you his motive.”
“He had to explain his rudeness on the boat. He and Stacy made sure I knew they had reasons to want Otto alive.” Val told Granddad about Otto’s promise to donate to the bay fund and to return Stacy’s Titanic letter.
“Do they have proof Otto planned to do that?”
“They didn’t show me any, or even say they had it.” Val transferred the clean dishes from the counter to the cabinet. “Stacy’s main goal is protecting Trey. She insisted that Otto wasn’t murdered but committed suicide. She may be pushing suicide because she’s afraid Trey will be charged with murder.”
Granddad rinsed and dried the knife again. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree about the note. How would Stacy or Trey or anyone else know Damian had a gun?”
He’d picked on the loose thread that had been bothering Val too. “The person who wrote the anonymous letter could have guessed there was a gun in the Browns’ house. In other words, it was a shot in the dark.”
Granddad groaned. “I don’t like your pun or your explanation. Damian could have told the woman he had an affair with that he owned a gun.”
“Unusual pillow talk.”
“Not if she wants you to kill her husband.”
Val closed the now empty dishwasher. No matter what information came to light, Granddad would find a way to blame Otto’s death on Cheyenne. “If Cheyenne convinced Damian to kill Otto, why would she send an anonymous letter saying he’d done it? Once the police turned up the heat on him, he could implicate her in the murder.”
For a change, Granddad didn’t come back immediately with a counterargument. He rinsed and dried the knife again, looked closely at it, and nodded. “You’re right. That leaves one other person who could have written that letter. Someone who knew Damian had a gun or who could plant one if he didn’t.”
Granddad nodded. “I’ll bet you’re right about the fingerprints on that anonymous letter. They’ll all belong to her. That’s ’cause she sent it to herself.”
Chapter 19
Val couldn’t think of any reason to reject Granddad’s idea about the anonymous note, nor any reason to accept it. “Explain why Louisa would send herself that letter.”
“Jealousy. She knew her husband was spending time with Cheyenne and suspected he’d leave her for a younger woman. So she concocts a scheme to make sure he doesn’t. Step one, she sends herself a letter warning that her husband’s going to kill her. Step two, she comes to see me yesterday and plants the idea that Damian murdered Otto.” Granddad ticked off the steps on his fingers. “Step three, she lures Damian into the garage, shoots him, and then claims she did it by accident or in self-defense.”
Had Granddad lifted that idea from an old movie? Val had trouble imagining Louisa planning and executing such a devious plot. “You’re saying Louisa committed premeditated murder?”
“Why not? The gun could have been in the house a long time, or she may have just bought it. You have only her word that it was under the passenger seat. There were no witnesses in the garage when Damian was shot.”
“True, but her version of what happened in the garage matches her personality more than your version. Based on how she lashed out at Stacy on the yacht, I’d say Louisa is easily agitated and acts on impulse. She’s not a planner.”
“She lashed out because chicken farming is a hot-button issue with her.” Granddad sliced through the fish. “That doesn’t mean she can’t be cold and calculating about other things. She acted nervous here yesterday, and she probably freaked out after she shot Damian. She could have faked it both times.”
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