Voice Mail Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Oh, her,” she muttered. She’d gotten so wrapped up in her own problems that she’d almost lost track of the fact that another murder had taken place.

  “We’ve now questioned Ms. Davis’s son and her secretary. We’ve also re-questioned Charlene Terlinger as well as the son of Abigail Prescott.”

  “And you want me to listen to them too?”

  “Just do your thing, Dr. Barnes,” replied the detective, leaning against her door frame, waving the CD case around tantalizingly as if it were a box of Godiva chocolate. “Someone—no doubt someone you’ve heard on one of these recordings—thinks you’re a threat, which means they think you know something. Maybe you do.”

  “I don’t know anything,” she answered.

  “Just listen to the recordings, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop, and he placed the little square under her nose with a snap. She reached up, unwillingly, and took it.

  “What if this person—this someone—who considers me a threat decides to do more than just sabotage my car?”

  “We won’t let that happen,” he replied.

  “Oh, really, how?” she questioned.

  “You see that Pontiac?” he stepped back and pointed to a green sedan parked a block down her street. She peered out where he pointed. “Officer Bradley, nice guy. He’s been there since your husband left for work and he’ll be there until he returns.”

  “Wonderful,” she scowled. “Now I need protection.”

  “Now, you need to just rest,” he said, nodding to the CD in her hand, “and listen to this CD while you’re doing it.” He lifted his bushy eyebrows.

  “All right, all right,” she responded, shooing him away as she clutched her robe more tightly around her neck. The small movement sent waves of new pain shooting up her forehead. Shoop was off the stoop. He turned back to her as he headed out to his car parked in front of her sidewalk.

  “And, Dr. Barnes,” he called, “take care of that eye. It looks like you’re really going to have a shiner!” He beamed an uncustomary jaunty smile at her in farewell and strode off to his vehicle.

  She carefully closed the front door and headed back inside. Along the way, she stopped in the family study where she grabbed a portable CD player, then adding the glass of water and the banana to her collection, she returned to her bedroom and climbed back into bed. After downing the banana in a few bites, she opened the CD and slid the new disk into her portable player. Then, she leaned back against her pillows and sipped her water, eyes closed as she listened to the new voices.

  The recording began with a male officer’s voice announcing the name of the suspect being questioned. The first voice she heard was that of Demetrius Davis, the son of the murdered Skye Davis. Like his mother, Demetrius spoke with no sign of a black dialect, much to Pamela’s delight. She knew Willard felt a personal vindication whenever this common stereotype was dispelled. All she heard in the young man’s voice was grief. From his responses to the questions, it was obvious that Demetrius Davis loved his mother and was proud of her. She had raised him alone. He had never known his biological father, although he did know his name. Skye Davis had refused any assistance although she had certainly qualified for it. Demetrius described his mother as a proud, energetic, hard-working, intelligent woman who had scraped her way to the top, becoming one of Reardon’s most successful realtors. She had worked at a major agency before stepping out on her own just several years ago. She had instilled in her son a work ethic second to none and he was making his way through college with a combination of academic and football scholarships, and work study. He was surprised that his mother was involved with the Coach—and that the Coach was involved with his mother. He didn’t even realize that they knew each other well. He assumed they had met at one of the many family functions held for team members throughout the year. His mother had dutifully attended these events because she loved her only son and she reveled in his success on the football field. The two of them lived together in a modest, middle-class home in a Reardon suburb.

  Pamela listened to the young man’s story—his monologue. She felt her heart go out to the young football player. The two most important adults in his life—the two people he admired most—were now dead—murdered—and not only murdered, but murdered in a horribly scandalous way. These two people had betrayed him by their involvement. All she heard in his voice was sadness and despair. Could he have found out about his mother’s affair with his coach and become so enraged that he had followed the coach to his tryst with his mother and murdered him? Then later, could this young man have murdered his mother too?

  She didn’t think so, but she wasn’t certain. The second voice was that of the Skye Davis’ secretary—Derlinda Washington. This woman was the only office worker in Skye Davis’s small real estate office. She was aware of all of Ms. Davis’s comings and goings—all of her appointments. On the recording, she explained that on the day of the Coach’s murder, Skye Davis had left the office to show a house—or that’s what she had told her secretary. When she had returned later that afternoon around three o’clock, she had seemed perfectly normal. Derlinda Washington reported that Skye Davis had only mentioned Coach Croft in reference to her son Demetrius and often noted how much her son admired the man. The secretary indicated that she never suspected that her boss was having a sexual relationship with the football coach. When asked about the day of Skye Davis’s murder, the secretary reported that she had come to work that morning only to find her boss lying on the ground beside her car bleeding from her back. Derlinda had called 911 immediately, but it was too late. She noted that her boss often arrived at the office before she did because she was a workaholic.

  Again, Pamela could see no motivation for this secretary to murder Coach Croft or her employer who’d had an affair with him. Ms. Washington seemed genuinely upset at the woman’s death and truly sorry for her young son who was left behind. Also, Pamela realized that if Skye Davis had returned to her office by three o’clock the afternoon of the Coach’s murder, she could probably be eliminated as a suspect in that murder as the autopsy report indicated time of death as between four and eight.

  The third interview proved more enlightening. The voice was that of Charlene Terlinger. Of course, Pamela had heard this woman speak before—on the original voice mail recording. She was their Speaker Number One who had left messages #1, 2, and 6. It was this woman’s son—Ricky—who had revealed the nature of the identities of the mistresses when he recognized her as his mother as Shoop had played the recording in Rosemary Ellis’s office. Now, Pamela heard Charlene Terlinger explain for the police the nature of the relationship that she had with Coach Wade Croft. Pamela assumed that much of what Charlene Terlinger was saying probably held true for Croft’s other mistresses as well, even though, it became evident that the mistresses were totally unaware of each other—at least that was apparently Coach Croft’s intent.

  Charlene Terlinger’s sweet, almost child-like voice floated through her bedroom.

  “He was so nice,” she said. “He was gentle and such a gentleman. Ricky adored him. I met him at that Team Family Picnic in the fall several years ago, when Ricky first joined the team. I mean, did you see him? He’s tall and strong. He has the gentlest face. I can’t believe he’s gone . . .”

  The questioner attempted to redirect Charlene Terlinger to her story.

  “He talked to me at the picnic. He asked about Ricky and me and our lives. I remember telling him that we were alone. I even told him how my husband had deserted me when Ricky was just a baby. He was really sympathetic. He told me he’d look out for Ricky and not to worry about him. I really believed him. He was always doing things for Ricky; he went out of his way that first year. I was really grateful; he was sort of like a second father.”

  “And you felt obligated to repay him?” asked the police questioner.

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “He never demanded anything. It wasn’t until this year. He had done so much for Ricky and he often called me at home to ask me
things about Ricky and to check to see how he was doing—how I thought he was doing. One day, he suggested we discuss Ricky over coffee and we did and—one thing led to another. He is so attractive and . . . I am human.”

  “Anyway,” she continued, “he told me he was married and that his wife was an invalid but that he was devoted to her, but that . . . well, you know. I told him that I would never want to damage his relationship with his wife . . . that I understood . . . you know.”

  Pamela was wondering just how calculated these relationships had been. They obviously had taken Coach plenty of time to establish. This woman truly believed in the goodness of her and the Coach’s intents. Charlene Terlinger continued with her tale.

  “Coach and I would try to get together when he could get away. That wasn’t often. I mean, he was the Head Football Coach. He had practice every day. He had recruiting. And, of course, his wife. He had to spend a lot of time with her and caring for her. When he was able to see me, he would call me and suggest a local motel. He always chose a different one, he said, because he didn’t want to become a regular. It was my job to register. I always paid cash for the room and he’d pay me back when I saw him. Then, I’d go to the room, call him on a disposable cell phone that he bought for me and leave the room number as a voice mail message on his cell because usually he couldn’t take a call. Then, I’d just wait. Coach would usually show up in an hour or two and we’d spend the afternoon together. Then, he’d leave first and later, I’d check out. He said we need to be very discreet because it would look really bad if anyone found out. I understood—and besides, I didn’t want Ricky to know. He wouldn’t understand. He worships Coach. He’d think he was taking advantage of his mother, and that’s not what happened.”

  So that’s how they did it, thought Pamela. Very neat, simple—especially for Coach Croft. The women took all the risk, she noted, and the Coach took virtually none. Of course, she had to admit, that ultimately the Coach did suffer the penalty for his peccadilloes.

  The remaining two interviews were with the other team members and sons of the voice mail mistresses. She had heard the recording of Demetrius Davis—son of the murdered Skye Davis. Now she listened to the conversation of Ricky Terlinger and Will Prescott. It was evident that Terlinger knew little, if anything, about the activities of the Coach and his mother—much as his mother had hoped. If he was lying, Pamela could detect no evidence of it. As for Will Prescott, he also appeared unaware that his Bostonian high-society matron mother had had a brief fling with his coach. Indeed, his major concern seemed to be to protect his family’s privacy. It was evident that Prescott’s mother had not revealed her indiscretion to her husband (she being the only one of the three voice mail mistresses who was married). She had, however, only recently since Shoop’s call, revealed her affair to her son in hopes that he would prevent the Reardon police from contacting her husband and further destroying their family unit. Apparently Will Prescott was following his mother’s orders and was going along with questioning on the assurance that his cooperation would keep the investigation local and that investigators would not question his father.

  Also, it became apparent to Pamela from the questioner’s probes that neither Abigail Prescott nor her husband had ever visited their son Will in Reardon—to see any of his games or even just to visit. If travel records checked out this information that Will Prescott had provided about his parents, then both of them, at least, could be eliminated as suspects in Coach Croft and Skye Davis’s murders. Obviously, thought Pamela, Abigail Prescott was probably suffering more than necessary for what was no doubt a one-time fling with the Coach during one of the team’s numerous away games. If. . . and how many away games had there been to the Boston area, anyway?

  “Jane Marie,” she said to her secretary, as the woman answered the phone with her standard, “Psychology Department,” greeting. “Do you have a list of the football team’s away games?”

  “No,” replied Jane Marie, “but I can get them for you. Just this year? Are you hot on the trail, Dr. Barnes?”

  “The trail is fairly cool,” she responded, “and maybe check a few years back, if you could. Call me at home.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” queried Jane Marie.

  “I am. I’m in bed with my feet up.” The conversation drew her little friend out from under her bed and Pamela tossed him the last bite of banana on her nightstand. “But Shoop was over here a while ago with a new recording for me to analyze and now I’ve got some thoughts percolating.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” suggested the secretary, “too much percolating can lead to . . .”

  “An exploding coffee pot,” answered Pamela. She fingered her head bandage; it was still there.

  “How’s your injury?” continued Jane Marie.

  “I feel fine, but I’m evidently going to be black and blue, according to Shoop,” she replied.

  “Like a war wound,” noted the secretary.

  “Just,” agreed Pamela. “Call me when you’ve got that information, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye,” she said and quickly hung up the receiver.

  Hmmm, she thought. From her nightstand, she retrieved the two plastic CD cases to add to the third she was presently playing. She removed the first disk and inserted a new disk from one of the other transparent boxes.

  “Let’s take a listen,” she said to herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As promised, Jane Marie called later in the afternoon with the information she had requested about the away games. However, by then, Rocky was home and she had had to put her detecting on hold. Of course, Rocky made being an invalid a pleasure because he indulged her every fantasy and she had enjoyed sending him scurrying around running little mini-errands for her. Angela had even come over with a bouquet of flowers—probably a suggestion from Kent, but whatever the prompt, she had appreciated it and had luxuriated in bed the entire day.

  Now, days later she was feeling much better, although her face still bore the ugly bruise of her car accident—purples, greens, and now just around the edges, some yellow. Ick, she thought, I probably gross out my students something fierce. She’d told her classes that she’d been in a small fender bender and they had all cooed and awed appropriately. The little demons! They were no doubt all laughing at her.

  But that was the week that was. It was now fabulous Friday and she was ahead of her friends—already sipping one of Pablo’s unbelievably scrumptious margaritas at their favorite booth at Who Who’s. She knew that neither Joan nor Arliss would be late. They’d both seen her face and they were chomping at the bit to hear all the juicy details of the accident—and she was anxious to tell them. Pablo whizzed past, giving her the eye as if to ask, “Are you ready for your second one?” She held up her hand and smiled and he floated on to the next table. She looked up towards the front door, where colorful streamers almost prevented diners from seeing the entrance of new guests. The music was loud, but not so loud that they would be unable to talk. Just then, she recognized the two women walking in the door. The hostess standing by her platform in front, holding a pile of menus, responded to Joan’s question with a hand in Pamela’s direction. Joan saw Pamela and headed her way. Arliss followed directly behind.

  “You poor dear,” intoned Joan, “you’re every color of the rainbow!” Joan took Pamela’s face in one hand and examined her eye socket from various directions. Arliss slid in across the booth from Pamela. Joan remained standing, lifting Pamela’s hair over her eye so she could get a better view of the damage to her face. “Did you get a drink? Oh, I see you started without us!” She turned and caught Pablo’s eye and held up two fingers, pointing to Pamela’s margarita. Pablo nodded and headed off towards the bar.

  “You’ll have to drink mine, Pamela,” said Arliss, scooting into the booth across from Pamela.

  Joan removed her jacket and slid in beside her friend with a questioning look. “Are you kidding? It’s Friday!”

 
“I’ll just have a Sprite,” replied Arliss, removing her light sweater and reaching for a menu from the center of the table. “My God, Pam, you still look horrible!”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Pamela, taking a big gulp of her margarita. “I’m trying to drown the pain.”

  “Does it hurt?” asked Arliss.

  “Not really,” said Pamela, “it’s my ego that’s hurt, if you must know. I look awful, don’t I?”

  “But you have such a tale to tell!” said Joan with glee, also examining a menu over the tops of her gold-rimmed glasses. Pablo arrived with two more margaritas and plopped them on the table and instantly departed.

  “You’ve been dangling this ‘fender bender’ thing under our noses all week,” said Joan insistently. “Now that we’re all here, you’d better fess up.”

  “I will,” agreed Pamela, laughing. “Don’t worry.” She lifted her drink and held it up to make a toast. Joan followed suit and when Arliss wouldn’t take a glass, Joan thrust the beverage into her young friend’s hand. “Here’s to my two best friends in the world! You’re always there for me!”

  “And you for me!” exclaimed Joan, looking from one to the other. They clicked their glasses together and Pamela and Joan each sipped their drinks. Arliss continued to hold her margarita, smiling.

  “You’re not toasting to our friendship?” asked Joan.

  “Of course, I toast our friendship,” said Arliss, “I’m just not drinking to our friendship—or anything.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Arliss,” said Joan, “don’t be a party-pooper! This is the weekend and Pamela has survived another one of her close calls! We have to celebrate!”

  “Wait a minute,” said Pamela, setting down her large glass with a little splash. Arliss followed suit as did Joan. “Arliss, you’re not drinking.”

  “No,” replied Arliss, blushing.

  “You’re pregnant!” exclaimed Pamela.