Carson was already at the back door of Monroe House when Maggie pulled in with Dallas once again her passenger.
“Join us for supper,” Dallas invited. “Evelyn’s made soup and fresh rolls.”
“I’m not hungry, but we should talk. Then I’m going to continue with the transcript.”
“Yes, yes, come in to talk. If you don’t want it now, we’ll send soup back with you to the guesthouse when you go.”
“Really, I’m not—” Her words stopped at Carson’s hand touching the small of her back, nudging her forward.
“If you want to talk about anything else, stop arguing with him about soup.” Now inside, she saw Evelyn busy with a large pot on a burner, getting bowls and plates out. “He’ll never quit. Faster to take it and throw it out later if you don’t want it.”
“Throw it out? Evelyn’s soup? I never heard of such a thing. Just you wait.”
It did smell good, but she had no appetite after the spread at Rambler Farm.
Quickly, they were seated around the table in the kitchen, the other three eating soup and rolls that smelled heavenly.
“Other than Eugene propositioning Pan, what did you pick up at Rambler Farm?” she asked Dallas and Carson.
“You first, since we’re eatin’. In addition to that question about the will — where did that come from?”
She told them. “Figured there might be something there.”
“Good figurin’,” Dallas said. “Wonder if Charlotte knows everything goes to Eugene.”
“Except Laurel’s share of Rambler Farm. Now Charlotte will inherit it all,” Maggie said slowly.
Dallas dismissed it with “Long way off,” but Maggie wasn’t so sure. Charlotte might take the long view.
“What of Eugene checking on the pre-nup?” J.D. asked her.
“I hate to steal his thunder…” She recounted what Scott said.
Carson’s only contribution was that he’d talked with Teddie Barrett’s mother. “She said she thought maybe she knew which man it was gave Teddie liquor. But then she named nearly every male in attendance, including the judge and Sheriff Gardner, who was still in Richmond at the time.” He lifted one shoulder. “I was mostly saying hello.”
They shifted to chewing over what Eugene had said.
Eventually Dallas spread his hands. “It stands like this: He wanted to get back to Renee. But there was Laurel, in the way. Renee wouldn’t hold back on letting him know he’d been stupid to have Laurel sign those papers. There’s the money, and the worry about getting the papers dealt with, and the prospect of havin’ Laurel back in the house, then needin’ to get her out again, and the whole divorce process. Not to mention his, ahem, amorous skills or lack thereof… Sure made things smoother for him with Laurel gone.”
“Unless he’s charged with murder,” Maggie pointed out.
“Doesn’t look likely, now does it?”
Into the silence, Carson suddenly said, “Remember what Renee said about the design of Eugene’s house?”
She waited for a response from the others. When none came, she said, “Yeah. So?”
“Eugene doesn’t have original ideas.”
Dallas rumbled agreement.
She asked, “What’s your point, Carson?”
A tic showed at the side of his mouth. Annoyance? Or a suppressed smile? “Thinking how a man who makes his personal architectural statement by copying a picture in a magazine might deal with a wife causing him trouble.”
“You’re saying Eugene copied the murder of Pan because he wasn’t original enough to figure one out on his own?”
“He’s not original, doesn’t mean he’s stupid. Somebody got away with killing Pan to date.”
“And by inference, you’re saying Wade kills his wife and Eugene copycats to kill his when she becomes an annoyance?”
“Could be,” Dallas said.
Carson frowned. “Would be interesting to know exactly what Pan told Wade. Or if he knew by some other means that she’d been back to see Zales.”
“All his talk about going to Lynchburg and playing golf,” Maggie said. “Why didn’t he just go to talk to Zales? Unless Gardner said he couldn’t, either. Maybe Zales won’t talk, holding attorney-client privilege even after death, but depending on who’s executor for Laurel’s estate—”
“What is it, Maggie?”
She’d sat bolt straight, facing Dallas. “Inkling. That’s what kept poking at me after all your dodging about whether Scott told you about Laurel consulting Zales. You said Carson didn’t. But in the car, when you first told us, you looked at him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. J.D., if you’d pass me the rolls and butter?”
“When you said that about an inkling. In the car at Shenny’s. You looked at the back of his head,” she insisted.
Carson, holding the basket of rolls, shifted his gaze toward Dallas.
“Really, my boy, it was … nothing.” Perhaps he heard how unconvincing he sounded, because he sighed deeply, then raised and dropped his hands in surrender. “It was about Pan.”
“What about Pan?”
“She’d been to see Zales the day before she died.” After a pause, he added, “She’d decided. She was leavin’ Rick. For good. I have it on excellent authority and it backs up what Rick said, that she had told Zales to start the divorce process.”
“Why keep that from Carson?” Maggie asked. “It gives him less motive.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Carson said, “because I didn’t know until now that she was killed because she was coming away with me.”
Dallas clicked his tongue. “Investigatin’ is one thing, but there’s such a thing as being too dispassionate, J.D.”
“No there’s not.” Before Dallas could respond, she added, “Have you told the sheriff all these connections with Zales? It’s a strong potential link between the cases.”
“My dear, going to Henry Zales connects nearly every woman in Bedhurst County who has contemplated divorce and can get themselves to Lynchburg.”
Commonwealth v. J.D. Carson
Witness Oliver Zalenkia (prosecution)
Cross-Examination by Mr. Monroe
Q: Now, Dr. Zalenkia, we wrangled a good while this morning about whether you can tell if a hair was pulled from someone’s head by some perfectly innocent means such as being caught in a friend’s cuff button and—
Ms. Frye: Objection. Mr. Monroe is once again trying to testify.
THE COURT: Sustained. Ask your question, if you have one.
Q. I do, Your Honor, I do. Now, Dr. Zalenkia, you also examined clothing from the laundry hamper that Pandora Addington Wade was using while living with her parents, the Addingtons, is that correct?
A. Yes.
Q. And on that clothing, did you find any hairs?
A. Yes.
Q. In addition to Pan Addington Wade’s own hair, whose else could you identify?
Ms. Frye: Your Honor, I continue to object—
THE COURT: And I continue to overrule. You may answer the question, Dr. Zalenkia.
A. I identified hairs belonging to Theresa Addington, Kevin Addington—
Q. Her parents?
A. Yes. Also Richard Wade, Junior.
Q. Her husband?
A. Yes. Also Sheriff Hague.
Q. My, oh my, the sheriff of Bedhurst County?
A. Yes.
Q. Anyone else’s hair that you attached a name to?
A. Yours. At least —
THE COURT: Order. Order in the court.
A. May I clarify, Your Honor?
THE COURT: You may, Dr. Zalenkia.
A. It was only an initial test that indicated it was likely that Mr. Monroe was in the division of subjects who could have donated that hair.
Q. I do thank you for that clarification. I’m quite relieved not to have been arrested myself.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Belichek waited until he was off-duty to make more calls.
He
liked what he’d heard about Sheriff Gardner, not what he’d heard about the murder investigation of Laurel Tagner.
As for the first case, nothing since Carson was found not guilty.
He called Maggie last.
She answered the first ring, but she sounded like her attention was elsewhere.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine and dandy. I’m rereading the transcript.”
That explained her distraction. “Anything?”
“Not yet. Except a nagging feeling there is something or should be something or could be something. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Because the deeper we go with this, the less concrete everything seems to be.”
“Happens that way a lot. Who’d you talk to today?”
“Nearly everybody.”
She updated him on the information from the Addingtons about the calls, tried to be casual about the ones to her — he let that go, since he already knew Gardner was checking on them from a friend of a friend with connections to the investigation — then detailed what she’d learned at the memorial, followed by Eugene Tagner.
“…and in addition to Dallas reporting to him, I wrote Gardner an email saying that if Eugene — more accurately Renee — would let us talk to his lawyer, a lot of this uncertainty could be cleared up.”
“That might be why they don’t want you talking to the lawyer,” Bel said dryly. “Guilty doesn’t want things cleared up.”
“True. It’s possible Eugene killed Pan for that rejection, but I don’t buy it. So, if he killed Laurel, using Pan’s murder as a how-to, that means there could be two murderers.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Hey, you’re the one who raised the possibility the first time we talked.”
“Possibility, yeah. Conclusion, no. You gotta—”
“I know, I know, build a mountain of evidence a pebble at a time.”
“That’s right. And only when you have a lot of the pebbles that belong to your particular mountain do you start seeing its shape. You waste a lot of time trying to guess at what the mountain will end up like when you’ve only got a few pebbles.”
“Great. Did you call to give me the Rutherford Belichek Criminology 101 Lecture — again? Because please don’t tell me you’re going to pull a Vic and say I need to get my butt back to Fairlington when I’m only helping out the new sheriff.”
He pulled in a bushel of air.
“Is that all you’re doing?” Along with the question, he expelled the air, trying not to let it come in a gust. “Do you have a feeling this reminds you of something?”
“Of course. The murder of Pan Wade.”
“No, I mean starting with her murder.”
“What are you getting at? Are you saying Pan’s murder reminds you of another case?”
He heard the heightened interest in her voice. “Not like you’re thinking, Mags. And it wouldn’t be reminding me of another case. I meant reminding you of another case. Of … the case.”
Silence.
Silence like a vacuum had sucked all the words out of the air, leaving blankness between, around them, and all along the phone connection.
“Mags…” It was half asking her to forget he’d said anything, half asking her to come through.
“I don’t— I won’t—”
“I know you don’t, and I’m not asking you to talk to me. But listen. And think about it. Sounds like Pan Wade was like — was the same kind of woman. Sweet. Loved by everybody as far as anyone could ever tell. Trusting. Nice. Real tight with her family.” He knew that treaded close, and pulled back. “Trying to do her best in life, and by people. Maybe too trusting. Too nice.
“And then think about the kind of murderer who could take advantage of that kind of a woman. Charming. Con man. Going out of his way to be sure he was everybody’s favorite. Patient. Patient enough to plan what he wanted. And arrogant, thinking he’s smarter than everybo—”
“I gotta go.”
“Okay, Mags. Okay. Just think about it. I won’t—”
“Bye.”
* * * *
She made it to the toilet, but nothing came up.
Not sure her legs would get her back to the table, she sat on the floor, her cheek against the cool smoothness of the toilet lid.
Her hands were shaking, but her mind was working.
Similarities.
I’m saying that in a general way they look like each other — and like you.
There was a strong physical resemblance among the Fryes. If there was a resemblance linking Pan and Laurel and her, then there was a resemblance to another woman. Another victim.
The Bedhurst cases couldn’t possibly be related to her aunt’s murder. He was dead. No question.
Yet…
Similarities.
Had she recognized that at some level all along? Did that explain the bizarre moment of questioning Carson’s guilt?
Carson.
He’d spotted the resemblance. Possibly long before seeing the photos on the board in the high school gym?
Just how much research had he done on her family?
The same kind of woman.
Blood. Savage wounds. Head arched back in ultimate pain —
No. No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Or her brain would not work. Would stop completely. Forever.
The other, look at the other. Think about that.
Think. That’s what she had to do. Think about what else Belichek had said.
Charming. Con man. Going out of his way to be sure he was everybody’s favorite.
Was that Carson?
First reaction, she’d say no.
He had some charm, she supposed. That wasn’t his appeal.
He was a favorite of some, yes. Certainly not all. With those who didn’t favor him she’d seen him make no effort to change their view. More, he seemed indifferent. With an edge, perhaps, but still indifferent.
That rough indifference was entirely unlike—
Was not the hallmark of a classic, smooth con man.
She levered herself upright, washed her hands while leaning against the sink.
But who said all con men were the classic type?
She got back to work.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Charlotte sat in the dark of the sunroom.
The judge and Ed had gone to bed early, but she was too steeped in the success of the memorial to consider it.
A breeze outside shivered the swing under the broad-arching oak, catching her attention.
Nearly five years ago, Pan had sat next to her on the swing, those long tanned legs tucked under her, her arms wrapped around herself. Tears slipped one at a time down her cheeks.
“How do you do it, Charlotte? How do you hold it together? This house, the judge’s social calendar, all the projects and—”
“I work damned hard. I never let up.”
Pan had blinked, surprise breaking through her self-absorbed misery. “But … you make it look easy. All the parties, the charities…”
“Never mind.”
Pan reached out and touched her shoulder. “No, no. I’m glad you told me. I’m grateful. It’s a wakeup call. I suppose I’ve had this naïve idea of what life would be, how easy it would be. You’re right. I haven’t worked hard enough. But I will.”
Pan, the dreamy little idiot, had been sure Charlotte’s words were meant only in her best interest. That’s how she saw everything. That’s how she thought the world worked — to please her, to make things better for her.
Then Charlotte had blurted out a truth she’d never before spoken aloud.
“It’s damned hard, being indispensable. Making it look easy enough nobody feels uncomfortable or they won’t come back, but not so easy they don’t appreciate you. It’s a tightrope.”
Pan had stared at her with the pity of someone who knew the trip across the tightrope would end in disaster. Maybe not this one or the next or the one after, but some trip, some time.
It in
furiated Charlotte.
“You can’t do what I do.” Charlotte had tried to keep the words in. They wouldn’t be kept. Her gaze bounced away from Pan’s startled face. She stared at the petunias grown leggy and the gladiolas in need of staking. “You’ve never had to work hard at anything in your life. You, Laurel. Given everything. You think either of you could keep a place like Rambler Farm running? I’ve had to do everything. You? You’ve only ever had to be yourself.”
Pan had held still while the words jerked out of Charlotte. After, she untucked her legs, planted her feet flat. Charlotte felt oddly chilled.
“You’ve never liked me. All these years, all the years I thought we were friends, you’ve never liked me. You haven’t known me, either. You’re right about a lot of things, Charlotte, but you are wrong about this.”
Pan got up, giving the swing a shove that jerked Charlotte in a way she could only believe was deliberate, and walked away.
Charlotte never talked to her again. She saw her at church that Sunday, of course, but it was easy to not cross close enough where talking was required. Charlotte was quite sure nobody noticed.
Soon Pan was dead. And now Laurel was, too.
* * * *
Dammit, there was something in this transcript trying to tell her something.
If Maggie could put everything else out of her mind and concentrate, surely she’d see it.
A muscle from the back of her neck to her shoulder contracted. She sat upright to ease it, and her back and knees griped at the abrupt change of position after rusting into place. Even her forehead — she rubbed at tightness there — was complaining.
And no wonder. It was after nine. She’d spent hours squinting in concentration over the transcript as if it were a holy rune.
Then her stomach rumbled.
The vote was unanimous — time to get up, move around, get something to eat. She’d come back to it fresher.
After a cup of soup, a warmed-up roll, and a glass of ice water, she noticed the garbage can had reached capacity. She set the filled black plastic bag on the back steps while she fitted a fresh one into the can.
A scratching sound from the shadowy bushes brought her head up. Good heavens, Carson and Evelyn had said to be careful of garbage-digging raccoons, but could they possibly be reacting to the bag already?
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