by Carolyn Hart
The wallet lay open in the chief’s large strong hand. “Police. Chief Sam Cobb, Detective Sergeant Hal Price.” The plastic bag was still tucked beneath his left arm, the photograph not visible to Gwen.
Price, too, held open his billfold.
Chief Cobb spoke quietly, with no hint of threat. “There has been a crime—”
Gwen’s eyes widened. One hand sought support from the doorjamb. The arrival of police with unreadable faces at a front door evoked the terror of bad news, someone dead, someone hurt. “Ryan…” Her son’s name was a desperate whisper.
“—at The Castle. Detective Sergeant Price and I have some questions about the gathering there last night.”
Her relief was followed immediately by dismay. “Last night?”
“May we come inside, Mrs. Dunham?” His voice was polite.
“I suppose so.” She sounded uncertain and frightened. She held the door and led the way to a small living room with a white stone fireplace and comfortable chintz-covered chairs and sofas. Densely patterned wallpaper pictured a Chinese vase with stylized flowers. She gestured toward the chairs on one side of a coffee table. She sank onto a small sofa opposite the police officers.
Price placed the polymer case on the floor by his feet. The chief held the plastic bag facedown.
Gwen sat straight and rigid.
Cobb was soft-spoken. “Last night you and your husband attended a séance—”
“Is that the crime? Is it against the law to have something like that, even in a private home?” Her voice was sharp.
“The crime”—his voice was stolid—“is murder. Ronald and Laverne Phillips were shot to death late last night.” He watched her, his gaze measuring.
Gwen struggled to breathe, her violet eyes wide with horror. And fear. “Shot?” She appeared to grapple with the enormity of violent crime. “Where?” The word was a faint whisper.
“In their second-floor suite at The Castle. They were not seen again after the séance. Their bodies were found this morning around eight A.M. They had been dead for several hours. We are fully aware of everything that was said at the séance.” He placed the bag with Ryan’s photograph faceup on a coffee table.
Gwen looked old and stricken, as if every bit of life and hope had drained away.
Sam nodded at the photograph. “Your son.”
She reached out a shaking hand. “Please. Don’t do this to us. I know what you are thinking. None of it’s true.”
“Is Ryan the son of Jack Hume?” His tone was quiet.
She trembled. “Oh, he may be.” Her face crumpled. “I suppose he is.”
“Did you tell your husband about Jack Hume’s threat to contact your son unless you informed Ryan?”
“I didn’t tell Clint.” There was truth in her voice, but terror in her eyes. The cocker had barked the night she met Jack in the gazebo. Did she fear her husband had followed her, overheard her quarrel with Jack?
“Have you discussed Jack Hume and your son with your husband?”
“No.” There was heartbreak in her face and in her voice.
I thought of the two of them in their lovely home, marred by strained silence and averted eyes.
She leaned forward, her voice urgent. “What Jack said doesn’t matter now. I don’t know anything about Jack’s death. He fell. That’s all I know. Last night, that awful woman”—Gwen’s face was hard and angry—“in her silly black dress and beads and thick makeup, pretending to commune with the dead. No wonder someone killed her. But their deaths have nothing to do with me or with Clint. We were here.”
“Did you leave the house after returning from The Castle?”
“No.” She was vehement.
“Did your husband leave the house?”
“No.” Her voice was ragged, her stare hard and bright.
“I see.” Nothing in the chief’s demeanor revealed the fact that I’d told him about Clint Dunham making up a bed downstairs in the den or that Jimmy Hume claimed to have seen Clint coming from The Castle toward his house. “Very well. Then I presume you have no objection to Detective Sergeant Price taking your fingerprints to see if there is a match on the murder weapon?”
Price picked up the shiny black case.
“I don’t care. Take them.” Her voice shook. “I didn’t shoot those people. Clint didn’t shoot them. Clint doesn’t know anything about any of this. Last night at the séance, he didn’t have any idea that awful woman was talking about Ryan.”
Cobb tilted his head, peered down at her, his expression skeptical.
“Clint doesn’t know anything.” Her voice was husky with despair. “Don’t tell him. Please don’t tell him.”
Cobb slowly shook his head. “I’m investigating three murders, Mrs. Dunham.”
She swallowed, said thickly, “You said they were shot? Well, then, neither of us could have done it. We don’t have a gun. We’ve never had a gun. Ask anybody.”
Cobb looked phlegmatic. “I understand you and Mrs. James Hume have been close friends for many years. During that time, you have visited The Castle many times.” His gaze was intent. “Were you and your husband familiar with the history of J. J. Hume’s office?”
A flash of knowledge moved and shifted in her eyes. “Diane’s always talking about The Castle. I never listened closely.”
The chief nodded. He glanced toward Hal. “Mrs. Dunham might prefer to have her fingerprints taken in the kitchen. I’ll be on my way to my office.”
She came to her feet, her face distraught. “I want Ryan’s picture. You have no right to keep it.”
“The photograph is included in evidence taken from the crime scene. If your son’s picture turns out not to be germane to the investigation, you may make a claim for its return.”
The chief retraced his steps, walking fast. At The Castle’s front drive, he headed for a police cruiser parked in the shade of a cottonwood. He unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat, placing the bagged photograph in a side pocket. Immediately the air-conditioning hummed.
The passenger seat was not, to put it kindly, tidy. I removed two empty Frito bags, a McDonald’s sack, three Styrofoam coffee cups, and a crumpled Baby Ruth wrapper.
As the cruiser pulled out of The Castle drive, he said conversationally, “Nice of you to come along. Make yourself comfortable.”
I brushed out the seat and settled back. “I’d be glad to appear.” I always enjoyed wearing an Adelaide police uniform. The French blue was a lovely color. I started to swirl into—
“No need to do that.” It was as near a yelp as I’d ever heard from Chief Cobb.
Obediently, I retreated. Another time.
As the car curved right at the base of the hill, I observed brightly, “If we’re on the way to your office, you could pick up some hamburgers from Lulu’s.”
“The office was for Gwen Dunham’s benefit.” As soon as the car was a block away from the Dunham house, he reached forward, punched a button. The siren squealed. The cruiser picked up speed, curved around a corner.
“Ooooh. Fun. You must be as hungry as I am.”
“I don’t use a siren to go to lunch. Hal will keep Gwen Dunham occupied long enough for me to get to her husband’s office before she can call him.”
Clint Dunham sat behind an unpretentious, plain gray metal desk in an ebony leather swivel chair. To one side on a shelf was a computer monitor with a keyboard. The room was large enough for two upholstered chairs in a bright floral print, bookcases on one wall, filing cabinets against another. Plain blue drapes framed large casement windows.
He stared at Chief Cobb, his face dogged, determined, and resistant. “I have nothing to say.” In a soft blue, short-sleeved polo shirt and khaki slacks, he was an odd figure for high drama. He looked like a man ready for a round of golf, not a man possibly fighting for his life.
The chief sat with his hands spread on his thighs. A fingerprint kit and manila folder were on the floor next to him. “Did you leave your house last night?”<
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No response.
“Did your wife leave your house?”
No response.
“A witness saw you on the grounds of The Castle.”
Clint’s eyes flickered, but his face was rigid.
Chief Cobb retrieved the folder, opened it, and placed on the desk the plastic bag with Ryan Dunham’s photograph. “Were you aware that Jack Hume is Ryan’s father?”
Clint’s jaws ridged. For an instant, his hands closed into fists.
The chief looked stern. “Three people have been murdered, Mr. Dunham. If you are innocent, you may hold information which can help solve these crimes. Did you hear the Humes’s cocker barking last night?”
No response.
Chief Cobb gestured at the shiny black fingerprint case. “Those who were at The Castle last evening are being asked for fingerprints.”
“No.”
“I can take you to the police station as a person of interest.”
Clint reached toward the telephone. “I’ll call my lawyer.”
The chief studied him for a moment, then heaved himself to his feet. He picked up the fingerprint kit, slid the plastic bag beneath one arm. “Don’t leave town, Mr. Dunham. I’ll be back in touch.” He paused in the doorway. “You could make this easier. It’s important to know whether you heard the cocker bark.”
Clint folded his arms.
Chief Cobb’s voice was grave. “There’s a killer out there, smart, quick-thinking, ruthless. When word gets out that you were on The Castle grounds, you may look into the muzzle of a gun and know in that last instant that you made a mistake.”
Chief Cobb turned the a/c on high. He glanced toward the empty passenger seat.
I floated above the seat.
“Might wait a minute before you sit down.” He gave a small head shake. “I feel dumb talking to somebody who isn’t here. But”—now the words were rushed—“please keep it that way.”
I hovered for a moment longer. A car with closed windows in Oklahoma on a hot June day resembles a kiln. The plastic seat was still uncomfortable when I dropped into my place.
The cruiser pulled away from the curb.
“You didn’t get much information.” I wasn’t being critical, simply stating a fact.
“He’s scared.” The chief was matter-of-fact. “Maybe for himself. Maybe for his wife. Scared and smart. He was on The Castle grounds and he knew better than to lie. But maybe not smart enough to save his life—if he’s innocent.”
I felt a quick stab of worry. “Is Jimmy in danger?”
Cobb shook his head. “He’s told what he knows. If he saw anyone else, he would have spoken up. Or Jimmy may be the killer and he’s taking advantage of Dunham being on the grounds. Or Dunham may be the one we’re looking for. What I need is proof, a physical piece of evidence linking someone to the crime.”
Alison Gregory stared at the chief in wide-eyed shock. “That’s horrible.” She was as carefully and artfully groomed as always, blond hair gleaming, makeup understated but perfect, well dressed, sophisticated, and self-possessed. But now there was an element of uncertainty in her blue eyes. The hand she lifted to brush back a strand of hair shook slightly. “Shot? That’s incredible.” Sudden worry flared in her eyes. “Is Evelyn all right?”
Cobb sat in a large leather chair, hands planted firmly on his knees. The fingerprint kit rested on a corner of the pine coffee table. “Miss Hume is shocked. She now believes her brother was murdered. I understand he came to see you.”
Alison picked up a bronze letter opener inlaid with turquoise and turned it around and around in her hand. “That’s correct.” She recounted Jack’s hope that he could become closer to his sister, but she spoke almost absently, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
I raised an eyebrow. Alison didn’t repeat Jack’s words about his sister’s anger: My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she’d shoot me.
As always, the chief’s heavy face reflected calmness, with no hint he was aware that Alison had omitted a significant piece of information.
He glanced at his notes. “I understand you recommended Leonard Walker to Jack Hume.”
“Leonard?” She repeated the name without interest. “That wasn’t important. Except”—she gave a small shrug—“to Jack. He was interested in having a portrait painted of his late wife. Chief Cobb.” She sounded embarrassed. “I have a confession to make.”
He waited, his brown eyes intent.
Alison tossed back her hair. “I didn’t take it seriously about that vase falling the other night. When was it?” She looked as if she were figuring. “I guess it was yesterday that Evelyn called me. So Tuesday night. I’m not too clear on what happened, but I think that woman who knew Jack was in the garden when the vase came down. Evelyn pretty clearly wanted me to look over the pedestal and”—touches of pink flared in her cheeks—“conclude that the vase fell by accident.” She looked away from Cobb, as if studying a brilliantly colorful Baranov painting on a sidewall. “Okay.” She gripped the letter opener. “There’s no graceful way to put it. I went up on the balcony and smudged away traces of a chisel. I figured some vandal had prized the vase loose. It never occurred to me somebody really tried to kill anybody. So”—now she looked at him directly—“I guess I’m guilty of destroying evidence. But with Laverne and Ronald dead, I had to tell you.” She looked diminished.
Cobb didn’t change expression. “We’ll ask you to come to the station and make a formal statement. For now, I want to hear about last night’s séance.”
Alison spoke quickly. She was accurate and complete.
He read from his notes, his face stolid: “‘…bright red poppies in a field…sharp light and a magnifying glass…’ Would you have any explanation for this passage?”
Alison’s face folded in a puzzled frown. “I didn’t take mention of the painting—I’m sure that was the Metcalf painting—to mean much of anything. I thought the séance was a bunch of nonsense until Laverne claimed somebody pushed Jack Hume. That pretty well drove everything out of my mind. Of course, everyone was upset and most of them were angry. I don’t blame them. If it was my family, I would have been mad, too. I suppose I was pretty harsh. I said it was all nonsense. I left as soon as I could. None of it had anything to do with me. As for the magnifying glass, I supposed it had something to do with Evelyn, but I can’t imagine what.”
Chief Cobb’s tone was avuncular. “You have been closely connected to the Hume family for many years. I would appreciate your insights as to who might have killed Jack Hume.”
Her face drew down in dismay. Slowly, she shook her head. “If I knew anything that I felt would be helpful, I would tell you. But we are talking about people’s lives here. I’m not willing to play guess-the-murderer.”
Cobb was somber. “We are indeed talking about people’s lives, Ms. Gregory.”
He waited.
She gave a slight shake of her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Very well.” He started to rise, then reached for the shiny black case. “We are requesting those who attended last night’s séance to provide fingerprints.”
Although she looked startled, she managed a smile. “That’s the easiest question you’ve asked. I’ll be happy to do that.”
I picked up the sack from Lulu’s from the car floor. I hoped it hadn’t left a grease spot on the plastic floor mat.
Chief Cobb cleared his throat. “I’ll carry the sack.”
“I could appear.” I know I sounded wistful. Wistful usually has a lovely effect upon manly men such as the chief.
“Somebody would see us. Then I’d be asked about the good-looking redhead with me at the lake.”
“Oh.” Well, if I couldn’t appear, a compliment was the next best thing. “How about sitting on the pier?” The forest preserve next to St. Mildred’s Church was one of Adelaide’s loveliest and coolest places on a summer day.
We found a shady spot a few feet from shore and settled on the wooden flooring, our feet dan
gling over the edge. The only fishermen were on the other side of the lake in a boat.
Sam—I do think of him as Sam—swiped his face with his handkerchief.
I carefully split the sack, placed it on the dock for a makeshift place mat. I picked up a cheeseburger.
He summarized what he felt were the important points:
“One. Evelyn Hume was ostensibly cooperative, but her only revelation concerned a man who was dead. The photograph of Ryan Dunham was found hidden in a coffee-table book in the Phillipses’ suite. Ronald’s fingerprints were on the print.
“Two. Diane Hume was quick to accuse Margo, but she revealed that she herself was well aware where the gun was kept.
“Three. Margo insisted neither she nor Shannon left the house last night. I think she was lying.
“Four. Shannon Taylor knows something she isn’t telling.
“Five. Jimmy Hume implicated Clint Dunham, but he also implicated himself. He could have been outside to place the cocker in the tool room.
“Six. I think Gwen Dunham lied when she said her husband knew nothing about Jack Hume’s claim that Ryan was his son.
“Seven. Clint Dunham stonewalled me. He knows something he isn’t telling. But he didn’t show shock when I asked him whether he knew Ryan was Jack’s son.
“Eight. Alison Gregory did not repeat Jack Hume’s comment about his sister’s anger toward him. Alison admitted she destroyed evidence about the vase’s fall.”
I added more salt to the French fries.
The chief chided me: “Salt’s not good for high blood pressure.” He stopped, a French fry midway to his lips. “Oh. Yeah. You don’t have to worry. You know, it would be kind of interesting if—”
I felt a tap on the back of my hand.
For an instant I was startled. How had Wiggins known where I was? Oh. Of course. He saw the French fry in the air. I waggled my French fry in reply. Surely Wiggins was pleased that I wasn’t, so to speak, here. However, I understood his instructions. To head off any discussion of the Hereafter, I broke in quickly, “That’s an excellent summing-up. Cogent, clear, concise.” Praise is always a good diversion. “Compelling,” I concluded with vigor.