Murder Wears White

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “Oh no.” Mr. Wayne hid his head in his hands. “I can’t have Lois’s death tied back to the Senator Hotel.”

  * * *

  “I haven’t slept in days.” The Truman Davies who sat across from me was different from the one I usually encountered. He was nervous, shifting about in his chair, his usual monolithic confidence and presence diminished to a spark of his former self.

  We sat at a table for two at Pellegrino’s, in the back, away from the other patrons and their tinkling laughs, smiles, and warm greetings. Soft instrumental music layered over chitchat from other tables gave us some auditory cover, and dim lighting hid Truman’s anguish from the well-wishers who waved and stopped by.

  “I had my suspicions about Chief Rusty.” Truman’s face crumpled into a miserable mask. “But I couldn’t believe my mentor would tamper with an investigation. He taught me everything.”

  “I can’t figure out why he admitted it,” I murmured, taking a sip of my red wine.

  “He’s dying.” Truman looked like he was getting choked up for a moment, but he steeled himself. “Told me today. He admitted hiding the hammer in Eugene’s shed.” Truman looked utterly shell-shocked.

  “The worst part is,” he continued, “I can remember thinking it was all too good to be true. I thought that finding the killer on the ten-year anniversary, right on the eve of Rusty retiring, was too coincidental, but I pushed those thoughts out of my head. I didn’t trust my own instincts or have the cojones to question my mentor. He had a perfect clearance rate, and I guess he couldn’t go out with the Scanlon case unsolved on his plate.”

  “But it isn’t your fault, Truman.” I patted his hand. “You may have had your suspicions, but you wouldn’t have been able to challenge him.”

  Truman grunted. “The police bungled Vanessa’s kidnapping and murder. Not too many around here, until you came to town,” he added drily. “We had little experience.” Truman was admitting mistakes?

  “You two look like you’re discussing something serious.” Angela bustled over to our table with a fragrant dish of olives, cheese, and meat. “A special antipasto dish, on the house.”

  “Thank you, Angela.” Truman didn’t even look up.

  Angela raised her eyebrows at me, and I shrugged in apology. He finally looked up with a tight smile that barely lifted his jowls.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” She waited with a hovering stance and didn’t seem to read Truman’s body language, which screamed, Go away.

  “We’re doing great, Angela. Thanks for checking. I think we’re all set with our server.”

  “Mrs. Pellegrino, we have a problem in the kitchen.” Another server sidled up to Angela, and she excused herself to bustle after him, her bun bouncing behind her like a cropped horse’s tail.

  “I thought she’d never leave.”

  “So, back to the subject at hand, Eugene Newton’s possible innocence.”

  Truman tore into a piece of salami.

  “And we need to figure out who really killed Vanessa.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, girl detective.” Truman held up his hand and regained some of his old composure. “There is no we here. Leave this to the police and the new district attorney.”

  “I would leave it to them if they’d gotten it right the first time!” I dug into my salad and speared a piece of spinach. “Your son, whom I hope you’re now speaking to, is convinced of Eugene’s innocence. Rusty’s confession really bolsters that claim.”

  “It could still be Eugene, and I think it is.” Truman didn’t sound as sure of himself. “But this definitely opens the door for other suspects.”

  “Like . . .”

  “The pharmacist, who was obsessed with Vanessa. He owned the store across from the Senator. He passed away two years ago, but I still don’t think he did it.”

  “What about Lois?”

  Truman snorted and polished off a roll. “Lois was harmless. A little eccentric, but she’d never hurt a fly.”

  I cleared my throat and studied Truman with nonchalant eyes.

  Truman sighed and put down his third roll. “Spill it, Mallory.”

  “I think she wanted a bribe to get the B and B rezoned to commercial status.”

  Truman’s face went white. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I told Garrett,” I offered meekly.

  Truman exhaled, and I felt marginally better. I didn’t want to be subject to his ire, but at least he was acting more like himself. “As you know, I haven’t exactly been speaking to my son.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” I said wryly.

  “It’s not good for Summer,” Truman admitted, hanging his head.

  “There’s something else I want to tell you.” I spilled the beans about Vanessa’s suspected jewelry thievery.

  “Fournier called it in. Promise me this.” He leaned forward over his plate and stared me down. “Stay out of my investigation.”

  “Evening, Mallory, Truman.”

  Whitney sidled up at our table, with Angela and Porter in tow. I tossed a grateful look at Whitney, and Truman sat back, his expression neutral.

  “I’ll take Porter home,” Angela volunteered, helping her brother get his coat on over his shoulders. “Mallory, would you mind driving Whit to Keith and Becca’s?” Angela looked at me expectantly.

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  Whitney joined us, and Truman and I continued our meals. I wondered whether Whitney had finally told her father about the anonymous letters during dinner.

  * * *

  “It was the right thing.” Whitney settled back into the passenger seat. “I should have told my dad about the notes much earlier. But I didn’t want to alarm him.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and squinted in the night.

  “I thought coming home would be a relaxing time with my dad and we could catch up.”

  She slowly undid and re-snapped the catch of her purple purse. “Instead, I feel like Mom’s life is on trial all over again.”

  Lucy Sattler’s robin’s-egg-blue florist delivery van was perched at the entrance to Windsor Meadows as I slowed down to turn. She recognized me right before she exited and gave me a friendly wave. Her van drove off into the night, THE BLOOMERY emblazoned on the side in cursive silver script.

  We pulled up in front of Keith’s cubist nightmare of a house, and Whitney stepped out. “Thanks again, Mallory.”

  “Do you want me to wait for you to get safely inside?”

  “Don’t worry. What could go wrong now?”

  A chill ran through me, and I decided I really didn’t want to test the fates with that question. Whitney hurried up the path, clutching her wool coat around her thin frame and against the crisp October night. She opened the door and gave me a friendly wave.

  I sat outside the house for a moment, savoring the cool night air. I turned the key in the ignition, and the loud start of the station wagon was drowned out by Whitney’s scream.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I ran up the front path and into the house. Whitney looked up with a second’s worth of relief before panic took over again, making her delicate features sharp and anguished.

  “Mallory, call nine one one.” Whitney hovered over a prostrate Becca, crumpled at the base of the kitchen island. Maisie stood nearby and paced in front of the stove, whining softly. Whitney gently slipped her arm under Becca and rolled her onto her back.

  I jabbed at my cell phone with shaking fingers and explained the situation to the operator. “The ambulance should be here soon. Does she have a pulse?”

  Whitney nodded and spoke to her cousin in low, calm tones. “She’s flickering her eyes open. She’s conscious, but just barely.”

  I slipped a pillow from the couch under Becca’s head, and she let out a distant moan.

  “Wasn’t supposed to be here,” she croaked out. Her eyes rolled back so only the whites showed, and Whitney renewed her intense questions, trying to keep Becca awake and lucid. I’d never been so hap
py to hear the sound of an ambulance roaring up the circular drive. The team of EMTs loaded Becca onto a stretcher and carted her off, leaving Whitney and me to ponder her fate.

  “I’ll need you two to step away from the crime scene.” Faith Hendricks strode into the room and frowned at Maisie, who was sniffing the pool of blood where Becca had been.

  Whitney scooped up the white dog and explained what she’d seen when she got home. Maisie left a bright red paw print on Whitney’s cream-colored coat, like a sprig of cherries on snow. Fiona crawled out from beneath a peach loveseat, her white fur shaking. I scooped her up and gave her a cuddle.

  “Where’s Bruce?” I called his name several times, but the dog didn’t respond.

  “Oh, no! The back door was open when I came in. I shut it before I saw Becca.” Whitney rubbed her arms.

  The room was freezing; I’d just chalked up the cold feeling to shock.

  “I bet Bruce ran out. He’s always darting off if he’s not leashed.” She clutched Maisie harder to her, and the little white pooch gave her an affectionate doggie kiss on the nose.

  “You shut the door?” Truman was back in his official uniform. He must’ve changed in a hurry when he heard the call about Becca. His eyes swept the scene, and he ordered that fingerprints be taken of the glass back doors.

  “I’m sorry,” Whitney stammered, sinking into an ivory suede couch.

  “It’s fine, Whitney. You got here at just the right time. You probably saved your cousin. Now, who would want to attack her?”

  “That’s just it—she didn’t have an enemy in the world.” Whitney stared at the spot where we’d found Becca and began to shake.

  Truman’s gaze swept over to me.

  “Don’t look at me! She’s no enemy of mine.”

  “I’m not sure what she was doing here. She’s usually at the gym Sunday evenings, or running errands with Keith.” Whitney swallowed. “Do you think her attacker was looking for me?”

  We were all silent for a moment. Truman filled the silence with questions and more questions. We sat for what felt like hours. Keith called to say he’d joined Becca at the hospital.

  “Is there anything missing from the house, Whitney? Officers are checking it out as we speak.” We took a slow walk around the first floor while Whitney looked for changes.

  “There are a few petals here. Mallory and I saw the florist, Lucy Sattler, leaving the development as we drove in.” She pointed to a smattering of silky yellow rose petals lying in a barely perceptible layer of dust on a small curio. “But there’s no bouquet.”

  I bent down and snatched up a slip of paper peeking out from under the curio. “Becca,” I read, “I guess the third time wasn’t the charm. I’m sorry you didn’t pass the bar. Better luck next time. Love, Mom.”

  “The missing vase of flowers could be the object used to conk Ms. Cunningham on the head,” Truman grunted. “I’ll need to get in touch with Lucy. She might have seen someone.”

  There wouldn’t have been much time between Lucy dropping off a delivery and Becca’s attack. Lucy might have unknowingly passed the assailant on her way out.

  Unless Lucy attacked Becca? But why?

  We followed Whitney through the house, and nothing else was touched, to her knowledge, until we reached her guest room.

  “Oh no, not again.” The room had been upended, her drawers opened, and the contents spilled to the floor. The mattress hung cattywampus off the bed, and papers on a little writing desk were scattered.

  “I don’t think anything was taken.” Whitney slowly turned around the room but didn’t touch anything.

  “But what were they looking for?” I squinted and tried to discern a pattern, but the room was thoroughly ransacked, with no apparent rhyme or reason.

  “I’m sure you have a good idea.” Whitney, Truman, and I turned around to face Keith, standing in the doorway.

  “What did you do to her?” He took a step toward me.

  “Hold it right there, Keith.” Truman held up his arm and stopped Keith in his tracks. “Mallory was having dinner with me when this all went down. She dropped Whitney off, and they found Becca.”

  Keith shook his head and let Truman’s arm fall to his side.

  “Is Becca alright?” I stared defiantly at Keith for daring to think I was involved with the attack on his fiancée.

  A wave of tiredness seemed to wash over him, and he sank against the wall.

  “She has a concussion, but she was discharged from the ER. She’s resting downstairs. She’s lucky.” His breath caught and he took a moment to compose himself. “She’ll be alright, but she’ll have a nasty headache. And her engagement ring is gone.” I hadn’t noticed the monumental diamond’s absence from Becca’s finger while Whitney and I waited for the ambulance.

  We followed Keith down the stairs to find Becca convalescing on the couch, resting her head on a mammoth bag of peas. A gauze bandage covered half of her forehead, and she offered us a shaky smile. Her usual haughty demeanor was gone, replaced with fear, exhaustion, and pain.

  “We’re not safe here, babe. We’re moving in with my mother.” Keith sat on the couch next to her and gingerly picked up her now bare hand.

  “No!” Becca sat up and groaned, grabbing her head. “I mean, the police said my attacker isn’t here anymore, right?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to rest well here tonight.”

  Becca lowered her head back to the pillow of peas with a slow, agonizing movement. “Maybe we can go back to Mallory’s B and B?” She flickered her big blue gaze over to me and gave me a pleading look.

  “That’s the concussion talking. Stay right here. I’ll pack your things.” Keith tenderly stroked her forehead and then rose to get her belongings, while Becca shot me a desperate look.

  “This Friday I found out I failed the bar exam. I’ve been in a funk and couldn’t concentrate at the gym, so I came home early. Then I got attacked in my home, my ring’s been stolen, and now we’re staying with Helene? I didn’t think this weekend could get any worse.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  “I should have done this a few weeks ago.” Garrett gripped the steering wheel of his Accord. It was Monday morning, and we rocketed down the highway toward the supermax prison to speak with his former client, Eugene Newton. Whitney was to marry on Saturday.

  “You’ve exhausted all his appeals over the years and had no idea the case would be stirred up again.” I turned kind eyes on Garrett.

  “People are getting hurt.” He dared to glance at me. “If I’d gotten Eugene a not-guilty verdict ten years ago, Becca wouldn’t have gotten attacked. Whitney wouldn’t be getting anonymous letters.”

  We pulled into the parking lot in front of the State Correctional Institution.

  “Leave your cell phone in the car. They don’t allow them in here.”

  We made our way into a lobby and stated our business, showed our IDs, and read the list of rules for visitors. We sat at a bank of tan chairs and stared at portraits of officials from the department of corrections. Half an hour later we were summoned back to see Eugene.

  “I shouldn’t have worn an underwire.” I cursed my decision to wear a bra with a metal component.

  Garrett let out a laugh as I nervously shuffled my feet along the ground on my third attempt to not make the metal detector go off.

  I wanted to believe in Eugene’s innocence since Garrett was sure of it. Still, my heart beat as we were led to the visiting room. I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t the frail, meek man in a striped shirt who rose to stand and face us on the other side of the glass.

  “Garrett. So good to see you.” His face split into a friendly grin, and I caught my breath. The years of confinement hadn’t aged him so much as worn him down. He looked almost as young as he had in the newspaper pictures from the time of his conviction, just skinnier and paler. The lack of sunshine had been kind to his complexion, but his eyes were infinitely sad. He was a hands
ome man when he smiled, and I saw why Vanessa had been infatuated with him. I’d unconsciously been expecting Hannibal Lecter, not a genial man who looked like he should be outside enjoying the crisp fall weather instead of sitting behind a bank of glass, separated from the rest of the world by a life sentence.

  “This is Mallory Shepard. She’s an attorney as well. We have some questions for you.” I squirmed in my chair when Garrett misrepresented me. I was still an attorney, but I wasn’t here in that capacity.

  “Shoot away.” Eugene’s eyes were open and calm and curious.

  I decided to not beat around the bush. “Whitney Scanlon has been receiving anonymous letters stating you didn’t kill her mother.”

  Eugene blinked and slowly rubbed his jaw with his left hand. His smile curved up again for a fraction then fell. “They’re right. I didn’t kill Vanessa.” His voice was quiet but firm.

  “Do you know who might be sending the letters?” Garrett leaned forward and tented his fingers in front of his mouth.

  Eugene chuckled. “Before she died, you and my mother were the only two people left on this earth who knew I didn’t do it. You never thought I did, and I appreciate that.” He closed his eyes. “I have no idea who would be sending letters now. Do you?”

  Garrett sighed and shook his head. “No. And other things are happening.” He detailed the break-in at his office and Becca’s attack, as well as the slashing of Whitney’s dress.

  Eugene whistled. “This is the last thing Vanessa wanted for her daughter.” He hung his head sorrowfully and seemed to shrink in stature before our eyes.

  “Who do you think killed Vanessa?” I blurted out.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and after ten years, I still don’t know.” He shook his head ruefully. “Believe me, if I did, I’d call Garrett in a heartbeat. Vanessa’s marriage wasn’t so great, even before we got together.” He blushed. “Her sisters-in-law weren’t her favorites. She complained about Lois and Angela and how they treated their brother like the baby of the family, but I can’t imagine either one of them killing Vanessa. She didn’t have an enemy in the world.”