Detective Chase barreled out of the police station, apologizing for keeping us waiting. They had finished their analysis of the cave’s samples—the composition of lime rock sludge was different enough throughout the cave to place suspects in various areas of the cave if they needed to. He said it was particularly useful data that we could use once we acquired a definitive suspect and said the results in our lab’s report of the samples that we collected were in agreement with his lab’s analysis. This made Maddie and I smile, for she had worked very hard on that report.
“We’re headed to the Thomas house, folks. Buckle up! They live on Dearing Drive over by the Southfork Hills in the southeast part of town.”
“But I thought they were millionaires, why don’t they live in the northwest part of town with the rest of them?” Maddie exclaimed.
“They only recently inherited the money, and I’m not sure if they’ve received the check yet, to be honest. I’m sure they’re going to move once they do,” he said, heading south on Astantine Street.
The car ride grew silent until we pulled up in the driveway at the Thomas’s house.
We ambled out of the car, walked down the sidewalk to the porch, and rang the doorbell. Within seconds, a freckled-skinned Beth Thomas swung open the door, ushering us into the living area. She was somewhat tall and thick, her fire-colored locks in tight ringlets cascading down her back.
“Good afternoon. I’m Beth; can I get you something to drink?”
I surveyed the living room and gathered a truly homely sentiment with the slate blue and yellow color scheme and country chicken décor. I reasoned that they hadn’t received the inheritance check yet.
“No, we are fine and thank you, Mrs. Thomas,” Detective Chase said. “You called and wanted me to come over to talk, so what can we do for you?”
“Well, Detective. I know my husband is lying about going to the reception. I know he wasn’t there! At the last minute, he springs up, says he has to go to this thing for his job, and I checked our bank statements. He never paid for this as he said he did. There’s not a confirmation in his email about it. He is lying! I want you to find out where he was. Oh, and I can tell you this, I do know he was with his buddy Zuptus. Those two are up to no good, I tell you.”
My eyes widened. My biology teacher, Mr. Zuptus, had always been there for me. I didn’t like the thought of him being implicated, in any manner, in anything deleterious. She was wrong about him.
“We will see what we can do as far as finding out where he was, Mrs. Thomas. Rest assured, we will get to the bottom of it,” he promised.
I was startled as an oversized gray cat hurled itself on top of the television, knocking over a mini statue of a farmer holding a chicken by the neck. Beth scrambled over to collect the cat, placing the figurine back on top of the television. She was unfazed, probably had done the same thing over a hundred times. I would never own a cat.
“Oh, one more thing. Because I’ve been following that murder case in the papers, I know the Newsted's are involved with what happened. I just thought you might want to know that Melanie Newsted works at the prison. I see her there sometimes.”
“Yes, we are aware that she works at the prison,” he countered without emotion.
“Well, she came in my wing while I was at lunch. I am in charge of the visiting hours in the men’s prison, Building B. I noticed when I got back that there was a code yellow on my register.”
“What exactly is a code yellow?” I asked directly.
“It means that an employee of the prison is visiting a prisoner.”
“Oh, I see,” I added.
“And it was Melanie Newsted.”
“Is this uncommon? I mean, are code yellows a common occurrence?” he said, an eyebrow arched above the crinkled furrows surrounding his eye.
“No, they are rare, and that’s why we flag them. Melanie has never had a code yellow in the years she has worked at the prison. But what I found interesting is the prisoner that she was visiting. It was the escapee Gerald Smith.”
23 TRUTH VERSUS ALIBI
After spending most of Wednesday evening with Maddie, listening to her gush about her new relationship and eating Janice’s cookies with Carden + Maddie = love decorated with frosting, we added the latest evidence to my new corkboard—a new column for Beth Thomas and we removed Camber and Sydney from our list of viable suspects.
We decided on a lab meeting for Friday afternoon, and after we had exhausted all efforts with the board, I made an overdue confession about my feelings for Wolfe. Once again, she encouraged me to pursue the relationship; I became even more befuddled.
After a dreamless sleep, I awoke to a data report from the detective, with a text that he would visit both Melanie Newsted and Mr. Zuptus, my favorite teacher, that afternoon. As usual, he extended an offer to me and one other club member to attend. Maddie had a date scheduled with Carden, so I told her about it, knowing she would decline the offer—she needed time to get ready and there was never a guarantee of how long these investigative outings would take or what detours we’d make.
Wolfe accepted the offer within seconds.
The day whizzed by, and at lunch, Maddie couldn’t stop rambling on about her date, detailing her plans of going to the mall after school to find something cute to wear—even though she already had a full closet of clothes. I was sad that I couldn’t tag along with her, but she understood, showing a reciprocal remorse that she couldn’t go with me and the detective.
I was happy that Carden ditched the mini date idea and had planned a fun night that would start with French cuisine at a swanky bistro in Silver Springs, a larger city adjacent to Godley Grove. After the culinary treat, they would enjoy a magic show at a comedy club—one that I was dying to go to. I was duly impressed he had spent so much effort to plan a date such as that, especially for a Thursday. I was jealous. I craved the feeling of being as excited as her about a future date with Wolfe.
At seventeen and only months from graduating high school, I had never been on a date or even had a boyfriend.
The school bell ended the day, and I rushed to my car, receiving a text from Detective Chase that he was only seconds away from the student parking lot.
As if on cue, the Impala pulled up behind my car. Wolfe and I climbed in as the detective shot me a look of surprise. I assumed he expected Maddie to climb into the backseat. I didn’t want to have to explain because I’d either have to lie or betray her. After he had continued to gawk at me, I was forced to say something.
“I offered the ride along to everybody, and he was the first to respond,” I whispered softly as Wolfe shut the car door and snapped into his seatbelt.
“Of course he was,” Detective Chase grumbled. “We are off to Mr. Zuptus’s house. He doesn’t live far from Willow and Wolfe, by the way,” he said, changing the subject to my relief.
“Yeah, I know his house. It looks a little retro. He has lava lamps and stuff in his windows. I’ve never been inside, but if his house is anything like he dresses, it’s going to be funny,” Wolfe said in a light-hearted tone.
“He’s got the retro thing down, for sure,” I laughed, easing a smile on my face.
He pulled the car next to the curb and halted the engine. We made our way towards the front patio, and Wolfe knocked on the orange-painted door, surveying the doormat—a colossal, colorful flower in bright orange, yellow and pink. We all had exchanged glances, smiling, before the door swung open, a light film of incense smoke billowing into the fresh open air.
“Hello! How are you guys doing today? Please, come in!” Mr. Zuptus said, donning a paisley satin shirt and vertically striped pants as he held open the door. “Let’s journey on into the kitchen. I’ve got some hot tea ready and just put some cookies on a plate.”
“It won’t be Janice Cookies,” Wolfe lamented, ducking to miss a low-hanging fabric light fixture.
We gathered in the kitchen as the lanky Mr. Zuptus served us tea and cookies on a psychedelic platter. Th
e bright orange Formica countertops were a perfect vintage balance to the bright yellow and pea green curtains covering the window. Hospitable to say the least, Mr. Zuptus acted as if we were over to pay a personal visit. However, he had served cookies from a box. Wolfe grinned behind his back.
“I’m coming over later to get Janice cookies,” he whispered.
“Deal,” I grinned.
“Mr. Zuptus. I won’t take up much of your time. Were you with Parker Thomas, III the night of Jody James’ murder? Mr. Thomas is a suspect in the case simply out of circumstance and motive. We would like to clear him, but he lied about his alibi. We understand that he was with you, but we need to know where you were,” he said, taking a bite of a hard, crunchy cookie, the tiny crumbs spewing from his mouth like a confectionary hailstorm.
Mr. Zuptus nodded, gazing directly into the detective’s eyes. Reluctant, but without a shade of anxiety. Whatever it was that he was going to say, he believed it to be true.
“Yes, I was with him. We were at Fox Sports Grill. We watched the game, started playing darts, and time got away from us. He didn’t want to tell Beth,” he admitted.
“Why not? Why would he not be honest? Why lie to the police?”
“Beth doesn’t like him hanging around with me. She says that I am a bad influence. Really? Me? I think not. We were having a harmless guy's night out, and he had to lie to her because she would have made a thousand excuses for him not to go. So, he made it work-related in a sense, and she gave him the kitchen pass,” he said, stroking his goatee.
“That makes sense. Do you have receipts, and do you remember when you left that night?” he added.
“Yes, I do, hold on a quick minute,” he said as he dashed down the hallway.
After about two minutes, he returned with a receipt in hand.
“I remember we closed the place down. It’s open until two in the morning. We had the entire place betting on our darts tournament. Here’s the receipt,” he said, handing a wrinkled receipt to the detective. “Parker said it was my turn to buy that night because Beth checks the bank accounts and tracks him like a hawk. Now I know why I’m not married.”
Mr. Zuptus laughed; Wolfe and I gave him a courteous grin in return. The detective scanned the receipt with a cheery smile and a nod.
“Yep, you paid the tab at 2:25 AM. Everything checks out. Not that I would have thought any differently, you know this is a formality. Thanks so much for your help and the cookies.”
“Bye, Detective, glad I could help, hope you can keep this information from Beth for Parker’s sake. Goodbye, Fiona, Wolfe!”
We scooted out into the Impala in high spirits.
“Well, I guess that takes Parker Thomas, III off the list, huh?”
“Well, not off his wife’s hit list,” he laughed. “But, we’ll clear him; his alibi is now credible and solid. I’ll forego imposing sanctions on Parker for lying to us this time, but I’ll need to deliver a stern warning,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “I’d be afraid of his wife too, she seems like a fireball,” he chuckled.
My muscles tensed during the ride to the Newsted home. I never wanted see the inside of that house again. We didn’t have an appointment this time; we had no clue of what we would face.
We approached the porch, and the front door was slightly ajar, a television on low volume. Wolfe took a protective stance in front of me behind the detective.
“What the heck. Do you think everything is okay here?” I said, peering around the human blockade in front of me.
The detective knocked lightly on the door, which incidentally opened wider, exposing the scene in the living room. Dimitri LeMorte was lying on his bat couch, covered with a furry blanket. The television was blaring, flickering onto his sunken, tattooed face.
“Mr. LeMorte! This is Detective Chase. Do you have a minute to speak with us?” he shouted from the threshold as he gazed inside the house.
Dimitri fumbled for the remote and turned off the television. He was ill. The room was a mess with tissues scattered about the floor, half-empty water bottles everywhere and plates of barely touched food piled at the edge of the couch on the floor.
“Come in,” he mumbled in a pseudo foreign accent through the muffled haze of his illness.
We cautiously entered the home. The house smelled rank, as stale cigarettes and aged trash.
“Mr. LeMorte, I am here to speak to Melanie Newsted. Do you know when she’ll be home?”
“She’s at the prison. At work,” he coughed.
“She was switched to the day shift?”
“She’s always worked days; don’t you do your homework, Detective?” he struggled to answer.
“You look awful. Would you like for us to call for medical assistance?”
“No, of course not. A Nosfu Vampire doesn’t use conventional Western medicinal practices. We do not need to. My body is only transitioning from my last expedition to the underworld,” he said in a loud whisper, coughing.
“Wasn’t Melanie at work the night of the staged murder scene at the Arles Cave? She had told police that she was at work that night. At the prison.”
Dimitri narrowed his eyes and barked out a laugh, followed by a violent coughing fit.
“No, she wasn’t at work, Detective. You should realize something else about Mel, by the way. She never laid a hand on Vic. She nearly went to jail for child abuse, couldn’t get enough money for the lawyers to get Vic back from the Thomas’s. Vic’s angry she had to be a foster kid, still blames Mel.”
“You’re saying that Melanie Newsted never abused Victoria yet she was charged with it?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t stutter. That babysitter called the CPS on Mel the day she found out Vic’s teacher at school had inquired about the bruises on her hands and Vic said she was beaten with spoons. Vic was too young, confused, didn’t tell the story right. Perfect scenario for that babysitter to lie and confuse the situation. That babysitter was beating Vic, not Mel,” he said.
“Who was the babysitter?”
“Jody James. But she can’t do it to anybody again, Detective,” he sat up, propping himself with pillows.
“Thank you, Dimitri. Will you leave Melanie a message to contact me when she gets home? I’ll leave my card right here on this table,” he placed his business card on the black lacquered table by the front door.
“I will,” he cracked, adjusting himself on the couch and fidgeting with the remote.
Detective Chase secured the front door and as we were walking back to the car, an elderly woman, a neighbor, rushed over towards us.
“Look at this,” the woman crooned, hobbling, waving a photograph in the air.
He accepted the picture from her, examined it, and handed it back to her.
“Cute. Your grandkids?” he inquired, placating her.
“Yes, they are,” she cracked a smile. “But that isn’t why I want you to see this. I was real good friends with Jody James’ mother before she passed away last year, she had a brain tumor, lost her mind the last few months. But I told her I’d look out for Jody once she was gone. Right there,” she pointed to the corner of the picture with a bony finger. “The street.”
I peered over Detective Chase’s shoulder at the picture. Two kids smiling on the sidewalk, one in a pink dress and the other in a navy sweater and khaki pants. I moved my eyes to the bottom corner of the picture. It was a rectangular dry spot on the street, where a car had been parked.
“When was this picture taken, ma’am?”
“Around nine in the morning, about seven hours after poor Jody was murdered. I’ve been following the case in the papers and on the television, Detective, feel so horrible about it. Jody was such a good girl, a loving child; her mother loved her so. When I got my pictures of my grandkids back from Walgreens this morning, well, I noticed that dry spot and thought it was weird right off the bat. I’m in the citizen crime watch in the neighborhood, and we’ve held meetings about this case—we know they were suspects ov
er there in that house. We also know where everybody in that house said they were the night of the murder. The Devil lives in that house, Detective, you should know that. Well, looks like somebody was spouting lies, nevertheless.”
The detective turned to face Wolfe and me.
He whispered, “If this picture was taken seven hours after the murder, this means a car had shielded the light rain, heavy mist, during the early morning hours—around the time of the murder. A car had to have been parked there in front of the Newsted house during that time. You can see the back end of Dimitri’s car in the driveway,” he pointed to the picture as he spoke. “Victoria doesn’t drive,” he added.
“Melanie must park in front,” Wolfe said, pointing at the street. “Oil stains on the pavement. She must park there regularly. Where did she say she was the night of the murder?”
“She said she was out of town, at a craft festival. Story checked out with a gas station receipt and then with receipts from the festival.”
“Well, a car was there that night and left by 9 AM.”
“Thank you for your help, ma’am. May we keep this picture? I will make sure it gets returned to you after we solve the case.”
“Oh, yes. Please do. Thank you, Detective,” she crowed, nodding before she hobbled away.
After we had driven back to my car, Wolfe rode with me to my house for a warm batch of Janice cookies. Once we settled in, we delved right into facts, sorting through the piles of evidence. We organized an evidence sheet for the next afternoon’s lab meeting, where we would discuss the case in detail and try to give the police something that they could use in the investigation. Difficult to work alongside Wolfe with stolen gazes and flirtatious remarks, I did my best to keep our attention focused on the case.
9:45 PM, my phone rang. Carden Doyle. Cringing, I shook my head as I slid the phone onto my nightstand, silencing the ringer.
Fiona Frost: Order of the Black Moon Page 25