Disguise for Death

by Sylvia Nickels

  “Unknown at this time is why Ms. Sibley is in Fall Creek or why she was near the Morrell estate. One might speculate she is covering our city’s two recent murders for her present employer, the Capitol News Journal in the state capital, where Ms. Sibley is a features reporter.”

  Royce stared as a glamour photo of Lucianne flashed on the screen. Lucianne shot? And why did the anchor woman have to mention that Palm was suspected in Bert’s death in the same sentence as Lucianne’s shooting? Obviously, Palm could not have shot Lucianne from jail. McGrath must be trying to attract more viewers with notoriety, as if the crimes were not sensational enough.

  She grabbed the phone and called the number which rang in on Chuck Brand’s dedicated line at police headquarters. Expecting the night desk sergeant to answer, she was a little surprised to hear Chuck say, “Hello, Royce. I expected you’d call in when you heard the news.”

  “Chuck. McGrath said that Lucianne was shot. How is she?”

  “She’ll be okay. Took the round in her shoulder, through and through. Still at the hospital.”

  “She also said the gun is registered in Lucianne’s name. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the shot that hit her come from her gun?”

  “We don’t know at this time.”

  “Is Jared at the hospital with her?”

  “Yes. He’s been there since we got the call.”

  “That must have been when I was on the phone with him earlier. He just hung up. What is going on in Fall Creek? Robbery, two murders, and now Lucianne shot.”

  “Bad time for Fall Creek, Royce.”

  “Did someone mean to kill her, do you suppose?”

  “If so, they’re a bad shot. Thankfully.”

  “Yes. But why?”

  “Uh oh, I’m sorry, Royce. I have to go. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Chuck.”

  ****

  Royce opened her eyes on Monday morning when the green numerals on the clock radio read five minutes past seven, shaken by a tension-filled dream. In the dream, Palm as a small boy waved frantically from beyond a weed-choked ditch. Beside him stood a little girl, tiny hand outstretched toward Royce also. Royce didn’t recognize the girl, though in the dream she felt she should. The ditch seemed shallow and not very wide, but try as she might, she couldn’t get across to the two children.

  Sleep fled, along with the disturbing dream. Yesterday’s events came crowding back. Palm. Why was Palm at the Fall Creek Inn? Why was Fern Rock, whoever she was, also there? Had it only been two days since the woman’s death? Devon. Who poisoned her beloved dog Sunday afternoon? Surely even the obnoxious FBI agent slash private detective wouldn’t stoop so low. But who else? And finally, who had shot Lucianne Sibley? And why? Had Lucianne discovered something about the robbery or one or both murders and so was dangerous to the perpetrator or perpetrators? She was an investigative reporter, after all.

  She had to call and check on Devon before going to the morgue to look at the woman who’d been beaten to death. Then she would see Palm. At least, he could provide an answer to the first of these questions. And maybe overnight, Lucianne had given Jared information that shed light on why she had been shot.

  She looked at her bedside phone, hearing Jared’s uncharacteristic raised voice. “What the hell did you say?” And then he’d slammed the receiver down on his end. Would Lucianne’s close call rekindle their feelings for each other?

  Nothing to me. But an unexpected echo of the ten-year-old Royce’s cold loneliness after the death of her parents swept through her spirit. Royce shook her head and picked up the phone. She dialed Dr. Loper’s clinic number. He always came in early.

  “Loper Clinic.”

  “Doctor. Do you know what’s wrong with Devon? Will he be all right?”

  “He’s fine, Royce. I checked on him several times. Slept like a log all night. And no wonder.”

  “Somebody drugged him?”

  “Yes, though it’s impossible to say how much he was given.”

  “What was it? Could it have killed him?”

  “Did you notice a sweetish smell on him?”

  She thought back to the frantic moments when she first got home. “Now that I think about it, maybe I did. Do you know how they did it?”

  “The drug was chloroform, a liquid. Could have been mixed in water or food, or held to his mouth and nose with a cloth or sprayed on him.”

  “Chloroform? That’s an anesthetic, isn’t it?”

  “Once was used for that. Now mostly in the manufacture of chemicals.”

  “But he could have died from it?”

  “Or suffered severe organ damage. Good thing you got him to me quickly. I gave him oxygen all night. You said you found him woozy and weak just before you brought him in?”

  “Yes. As we drove back home, Chrys told me she saw him lying in front of his doghouse, sleeping, she thought, about ten minutes earlier.”

  “Possibly she interrupted whoever did it. You’d better make a police report.”

  “I will. Will there be any residual effects from it?”

  “Hopefully not. He’s wide awake now. You can pick him up today whenever you want.”

  “I’ll be by as soon as possible. Thank you so much, Dr. Loper.”

  The news that Devon was awake and out of immediate danger took a great weight off her mind. She rose and slipped her feet into slippers.

  Out of habit, she pulled up the sheet and comforter, patting them smooth. The last two nights to the contrary, the room’s decor made it a restful bower. Drapes and bed covers were a soothing lavender, rust, and pale blue print, with darker blue paint on the walls. The simple lines of the white antique dresser and night stand normally pleased her.

  When she’d accepted there would be no babies for her, she decided to redo the house from front to back. She got rid of the unmatched furniture they’d brought from Atlanta. Until she found the intricately-scrolled wrought-iron bed at an auction, she and Eddy slept on an air mattress on the floor. Part of the second upstairs bedroom became a dressing room and bath, creating a spacious master suite.

  She took the rest of the other bedroom for her home office replacing the nursery she’d dreamed it would be. Driven, she did most of the wallpapering, refinishing, and painting herself, only hiring professionals for electrical and plumbing jobs and installation of the pale beige carpet throughout.

  She remodeled the kitchen, with new modern appliances and an informal dining/sitting area. At that end, french doors opened to a wide redwood deck she had had added to the house. She created an airy open space by replacing the wall between the living room and dining area with load-bearing pillars flanking a freestanding fireplace. It was perfect for entertaining, though in fact she and Eddy had entertained rarely.

  She placed the bolster matching the comforter against the graceful white curves of the antique headboard and picked up her robe.

  On one of the few occasions they’d hosted more than a couple of people, they threw an engagement party for Jared and Lucianne. Hal was invited, and came, but he stood in a corner and hardly spoke to anyone all evening.

  One of the times he had was when Royce brought him a fresh drink.

  “Golden boy gets the job and the girl,” he’d sneered.

  When Royce just looked at him, not replying, he’d added something else that puzzled her. “And golden girl goes for a career move. Or is it?”

  She’d known that Lucianne and Hal dated for a while after the younger woman earned her degree at Vanderbilt and returned to Fall Creek. The evening ended without acrimony, to Royce’s relief.

  When the inside of the house was done, she began on the outside landscaping, giving free rein to the love for gardening she’d discovered. In time, almost every feature of the house and grounds was a reflection of Royce. If she pushed and cajoled, Eddy would express a preference for a paint color, piece of furniture, or plant, such as the Shasta daisies. Several large beds full of the brilliant white flo
wers lightened the lawns, front and back.

  “Lily had a way of decorating with flowers, too. Living up to her name, I guess.” Eddy had made the offhand remark one day as they drove back home. Royce had dragged him to a home department store in Asheville for the day to look for bedroom accessories.

  His words cut deep into the festering wound his unfaithfulness had left in Royce’s heart. He couldn’t have known, and to his bewilderment, she lashed out at any and everything she could think of, except his comment. “I should have reported that clerk. I don’t know why she demanded two pieces of identification. I’ve written checks there before.”

  “Maybe she was new, afraid of making a mistake.”

  “The server at that restaurant zeroed in on you, hardly acknowledged my existence. We should have left a tiny tip.”

  “Waitresses work hard. She probably was having a bad day.”

  Royce rounded on him. “Excuses. And what’s your sister’s excuse for not even saying ‘hello’ to me when you call her?”

  “Honey, you know she hates being reminded of living in the projects.”

  “Well, she needs to get over it. I did.”

  “She’ll come around.”

  “You think? Maybe if you divorce me, go back to Atlanta, and get appointed police commissioner with a big salary.” She regretted the words instantly. She knew by his expression that she had succeeded in hurting him more than if she had reached across and slapped him in the face. But she’d been unable to control her reaction.

  I’m no better than Hal.

  Were the beds of his favorite flowers her way of atoning for her outburst?

  The observation Eddy had made about Lily was true, but after she left, Hal had ruthlessly removed all of her touches. Baskets and beaded curtains and ethereal flower arrangements were consigned to the trash. He paneled and painted over the sponged designs on walls and transformed the Woodstone house into a male stronghold.

  Hal’s sneering words to Palm when he started working for the Morrells and the engagement party comment indicated he was unable to let go of anyone with whom he’d ever had a relationship. Except Lily. Why? He must know or suspect the truth.

  Royce tried again to bury the intrusive memory of Lily and Eddy as she took a quick shower and glanced at her tangled, wet hair in the mirror. Very much like Chrys’s blonde hair had looked. Before last night, she’d never seen Chrys looking less than perfectly groomed.

  She was on the plane, maybe already arrived in Atlanta. I wish I could have gone with her. God knows what she may find in that little apartment above the gift shop. But I couldn’t, not with Palm in such trouble.

  Holding her hair dryer, the hot air blowing her dark wavy hair in a haphazard fashion, she stepped into her dressing room and fingered through the hangers. What did one wear to a morgue to look at a dead person? What had Fern Rock been wearing when her killer beat her with such savagery? The macabre thought made her shiver. She grabbed a long-sleeved white blouse and dark blue denim jumper and slid her feet into blue leather loafers.

  She had made up her mind last night that after seeing Palm she was going to the Fall Creek Inn to talk to the desk clerk. A woman could sometimes catch hints of meaning behind a person’s words that might go right by even a trained detective.

  Downstairs, she opened the kitchen door and, out of habit, stepped aside to let Devon go through, then remembered with a pang that he was still at the veterinary hospital. Free to run, Devon would have been in no danger, but hampered by a chain attached to a metal post, he was a target for anyone bent on harming him. As someone had yesterday. Who?

  She was just pulling the door closed behind her when the phone rang. Retracing her steps, she picked it up.

  “Royce.” Chief Granite was on the line, sounding a little raspy. He’d probably had no sleep last night.

  “Yes, Jared?”

  “Palm is being arraigned this morning. I’ll take you to the morgue first, then you can see him.”

  “Arraigned? All right. I was just leaving for the station. I’ll see you shortly.” The bruised and battered face she’d seen on television last night filled her mind’s eye for a moment and a chill traveled down her spine.

  Before she could ask about Lucianne, he hung up. Replacing the receiver, she picked up her bag again and walked toward the door. She was turning the knob when she saw Hal Woodstone, hand upraised to knock on the glass.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sighing, she opened the door, and Woodstone entered so aggressively he almost pushed her back inside. She greeted him in an even voice. “Good morning, Hal. I’m just on my way to the police station.”

  “What for?” he asked, as if he had every right to know.

  “To see Palm, find out what this is all about.”

  “I’ll tell you what it’s about. That kid is nothing but trouble.”

  “Hal! You can’t mean that.”

  “Like hell. And it’s your fault.”

  “My fault? What—?”

  “You always encouraged him to go against me.”

  “What do you mean?” Royce crossed her arms and stood her ground.

  “That dog”—Hal pointed to the corner where Devon usually lay, paused when he saw the dog was not there, then continued his tirade—“is a perfect example. I told Palmer to take him to the shelter and what does he do? He brings him over here and sweet-talks you into taking him. You always said you didn’t want an animal around.”

  Royce took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. The dog wasn’t the issue. Don’t take the bait. “Hal. Sit down. I know you’re worried about Palm, just as I am. We—”

  “I didn’t want him to go to work for Bert Morrell. But again, did he listen to me? No. You took his side then, too. You’re responsible, Royce Thorne.”

  “Palm is over twenty-one, Hal. Don’t you think you should start treating him like an adult?” Now was not the time. But in spite of her resolve, she was being drawn into his argument.

  “An adult? Oh, yes, he’ll be treated like an adult, all right. They’re going to send him to prison for grand larceny,” Hal bellowed as he slapped the table. “Maybe for murder, too.”

  Involuntarily, Royce moved back a step. “Hal. Palm is transparently honest. You have to know he would never have robbed Bert. Let alone kill him.”

  “Honest? He led me to believe he was coming home to help me in the business. And what does he do? Goes and gets a job with that scum. See what it’s got him into?”

  “And you bear no responsibility for any of the shortcomings you see in your son? Is that it?”

  “Me? I’ve provided for him from the day he was born. I took care of him when his bitch of a mother took off. How dare you say I’ve not been a good father?” Face flushed, he pounded the table again.

  Royce’s voice rose before she could stop it. “You provided food and shelter. But never very much love, Hal Woodstone. That’s why Palm was over here so often. Eddy and I loved him and listened to him when he needed to talk.” She knew she should put an end to this. Palm needed them to work together. He needed their help. Standing here shouting at each other was useless.

  “You and Eddy loved him? Listened to him? I was working my tail off to support that boy, even if…” Woodstone bit off the words that seemed about to burst from his lips. He stood with clenched fists, visibly fighting for control. “I don’t know if he would commit robbery. Or murder. I don’t know where he went after work Saturday. I told the police that.” After he spoke the incredible words, Woodstone wheeled and left Royce’s kitchen. He stormed through the door and crossed the deck with heavy, angry strides.

  Moving over to Devon’s corner, Royce knelt and picked up his quilted pad, holding it to her chest. She wished he had been with her but knew it was probably better he wasn’t. Hal’s shouts and hitting the table might have caused the dog to believe Hal threatened Royce and Devon might have attacked him. Devon usually paid little attention to Hal, perhaps sensing his animosity. After a couple of minutes, s
he felt calmer.

  She rose and again gathered her purse and keys to leave. The drive to the police station took her past the outdoor cafe where she had seen and heard Clupper and Thelma Morrell. She replayed their words, trying to understand exactly what they meant.

  Thelma said she had left the door open after “he,” presumably Palm, had gone. The man, Clupper, said the door was locked when he got “there,” presumably the dealership. Thelma accused Clupper of “holding out” on some woman, then killing her. Clupper accused Thelma of killing the woman herself. Who was the woman they were talking about? Thelma asked Clupper if he had been caught by “him” and “killed him.” Palm? Or Bert? Palm was alive, so not him. Thank God. But why would Thelma Morrell have met the man if she thought he might have killed her husband?

  Royce realized she was headed directly for the Transit Company kiosk at the corner of Pinon and Ash Streets. She wrenched the steering wheel, and her right front fender just kissed the newspaper box beside the kiosk. The resulting almost human-sounding wail of metal scraping metal was fitting accompaniment to the awful possibility that had assailed her.

  The woman Thelma Morrell and Clupper spoke of must be the same woman who was beaten to death at the Fall Creek Inn—Fern Rock. But why would Thelma use Clupper as delivery man to send money to the woman? If she had, what was her reason for doing so?

  Royce drove the rest of the way to the police station on autopilot, trying to get a mental handle on the possibility that had occurred to her. What could Clupper and Thelma Morrell have to do with the woman found almost, and now actually, dead at the motel? If she was the woman they had talked about. Possibly there had been one or several, whatever the statistical probability, women who died in Fall Creek from natural causes on Saturday night. But Morrell and Clupper had accused each other of killing the woman they were talking about. And Clupper had even seemed to connect Thelma with Bert’s death.

  She continued to sit in her car after pulling into a space in the station parking lot. Was it only yesterday she had followed Clupper from this very lot? And heard him talking to Thelma about, maybe, the woman whose body lay in the morgue?