“I don’t dare talk to him.”
“You can’t believe Palm is guilty of robbery and murder.”
“Of course not.” The young jailer motioned that they should start walking. “We’re not supposed to hang around the visitor’s room when no one’s in here.”
“Why don’t you dare talk to Palm?”
Sloan looked up at the camera near the first door leading from the jail proper and signaled. After a second, the lock clicked and the door slid open. They passed through and continued toward the elevator. She stood for a moment before punching the elevator control. “I requested to be relieved from duty in the jail itself while he’s here.”
“But surely it would help him to see a friendly face.”
“It could also hurt him.”
Royce didn’t understand. In her frustration, she spoke more sharply than she meant to. “How could it hurt him?”
“Even if we just talked about the weather, the prosecution might call me to testify, if Palm goes to trial.”
“The prosecution?” Royce frowned.
“They may, anyway.” Sloan pressed her lips together; tears glistened in her eyes and threatened to spill over. Then she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She pressed the elevator button and the door opened. She nodded for Royce to precede her.
“Surely District Attorney Fuller wouldn’t call you. Would he?”
“He might call anyone who knows Palm.” Concern shown in Sloan’s eyes as she looked at Royce. “Even you.”
Royce’s stomach lurched as the elevator started to rise but not from the motion, and she suddenly felt a little nauseous. Testify for the prosecution against Palm? It was unthinkable.
The elevator stopped, and the door opened on the hallway leading to the administrative offices. Royce stepped out, and Sloan started to push the down button. Royce held the door as it started to slide closed. “Wait, Sloan. You weren’t with Palm Saturday night?”
“It was my weekend off. I went to see…” She didn’t finish her sentence and looked as though she wished she could call back what she’d said.
Royce waited. When Sloan didn’t continue, she asked, “Did you talk to Palm at all on Saturday?”
“Not since Friday. He wanted to go with me Saturday, but I said no. How I wish I’d said yes. They have to meet some…” Again the younger woman bit off her words. “I’d better get back to work. ’Bye, Mrs. Thorne.”
Royce touched Sloan’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right. Palm is innocent, and I’ll prove it.”
She let the doors close but didn’t move for a moment. Standing in front of the stainless steel panels, she stared at her blurred reflection. She, too, wished Palm had gone with Sloan to see whomever she had to see on Saturday.
She headed down the hall toward the chief’s office. She hoped Jared Granite was still in his office; she had some questions for him and she intended to get some answers. Reaching his office door and Chuck Brand’s line of sight at the same time, she tilted her head toward the door and lifted her eyebrows in a question. The sergeant waved for her to go on inside.
She turned the knob and strode through the doorway. Chief Granite laid his phone receiver in its cradle as she entered. “Royce.” He greeted her without his usual smile. Neither did he stand, which surprised her. Chief Jared Granite was unfailingly polite to Fall Creek citizens who visited his office. And Royce was a fallen officer’s widow, not just an ordinary citizen.
“What have you done to Palm?” She planted both hands on his desk and leaned toward him.
“We arrested him, charged him with murder and robbery, and arraigned him.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Sit, Royce. What exactly do you mean?”
“He’s not acting like himself. He’s withdrawn, cold, and almost hostile. Why?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. He’s not talking to us.”
“He didn’t have an explanation for the money you found or why he was at the Fall Creek Inn?”
“As I said, he’s not talking to us. We’re going over the room he was in now. Maybe we’ll get some answers that way.”
“Did he check into the motel himself?”
“Desk clerk says he can’t remember checking him in. Palm wouldn’t say, to us or his dad.”
“Hal was here today? Did he show up at the arraignment? Try to arrange bail?”
“Yes. Yes. No,” the chief stated succinctly.
“He didn’t even try to arrange bail?”
“Said he couldn’t raise that kind of money. Palm told him, ‘So go transplant something.’ And he left.”
“Well, I’m going to do something. I’m not letting Palm waste away in your jail.”
“Go. Do. But until he makes bail, I have to hold him. You know that.”
The chief fiddled with the magnetic sculpture he’d pulled over on his desk blotter from its usual place on the corner. She’d seen him play with it often when he was thinking.
Just then the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up. “That’s who he called?” He looked at Royce and sighed. “Thanks. Keep going over everything.”
“What is it?” A premonition of disaster prickled down her spine.
“Did Palm tell you who he was trying to call at the motel?”
“At the motel? When?” She frowned, trying to remember exactly what Palm had said just before he left the visitors’ room at the jail.
“He made a phone call this morning from the pay phone at the jail to the Fall Creek Inn. Asked for Fern Rock’s room. He hung up when my man answered. We traced the call.”
The chief’s words hit her like a blast of frigid air. “Then he must have had a reason.”
“And the dead woman must have had a reason for calling you, Royce.”
She wanted to storm out of the police station but managed to contain herself. She turned and left the chief’s office without another word.
Chuck Brand, at his desk, was talking on the phone. “I understand, ma’am. We’ll have someone check it out just as soon as possible.” His soothing voice spoke to the person on the line as he waved goodbye to her.
She pushed through the etched glass doors into the spring sunshine. She fished for her keys while Jared Granite’s last words echoed in her head. And almost walked in front of a cruiser pulling out of the official parking lot beside the building. Fear, horror, and anger chased across the face of the rookie driver, piercing the fog of her own indignation and preoccupation.
“I’m sorry.” She raised a hand and pantomimed apology.
Reaching the safety of her car, she got in and took a deep breath. Palm called the motel and asked for Fern Rock. Why, in the name of God, would he do that? What connection could there be between Palm and this Fern Rock person? And could that connection, whatever it was, be the reason Palm was at the motel? And did that—oh please, God, no—connection have anything to do with her death?
But what about Thelma Morrell and the man, Clupper? They talked about a woman being killed. Fern Rock? If so, what was their involvement with her? And the money from the robbery. Did one of them somehow get Palm and the money to that motel? For what purpose?
She decided to follow her plan and go to the motel herself to poke around. The motel was on the northern edge of town, in the opposite direction from her home. Had she started from her own house, she could have saved time by driving the half mile to Creek Boulevard and then two blocks to access the bypass around the downtown area. From the police station, she had to maneuver through shoppers in oversized SUVs and business people rushing to complete errands on their lunch hour. The last traffic light changed to red as she approached it. She tapped her fingernails on the wheel, staring unseeing at the cars passing in front of her.
A pleasure boat swathed in plastic, apparently new, almost big enough to merit being called a yacht, swayed through the intersection. Only inches separated it from the sides of vehicles meeting it. The driver of the truck pul
ling the boat must have made a wrong turn. Hadn’t Palm said recently that he’d overheard Bert Morrell fighting with Thelma over a new boat he’d ordered to use at their “estate” on the lake?
Before the dam was built and formed Fall Creek Lake, the Morrell place was a rustic vacation lodge in the hills above Fall Creek. As their automobile dealership prospered, they enlarged and renovated the lodge. The area became the exclusive lakeside subdivision Fall Creek Acres, and other expensive homes were built nearby.
A honk behind Royce reminded her to look at the light, now green, and accelerate. The antique stores, offices, and few retail shops of downtown fell behind her. She merged onto state highway 411, the Fall Creek bypass, and continued past the mall. An eight-story building, passing for a high-rise in Fall Creek, stood on property across from the mall. All the floors above ground level were condos, one of which belonged to Chrys Wynter. Ten minutes of driving brought her to the Fish Camp Road exit. Taking the first left, she followed the curved driveway to the motel, hidden in a grove of oak trees.
She parked in front of the office in one of the spaces used by guests when they checked in. As Royce approached the double glass doors boasting the same stylized cascading stream decal as the police headquarters entrance, the official Fall Creek logo, a woman with her arm in a sling pushed through them. She walked to a late-model Lexus sports car and paused before getting in.
“Royce. I see you tracked me down,” Lucianne Sibley called. Her wine-red pants suit exactly matched the custom paint job on the Lexus.
“Lucianne. You’re staying here?”
“It’s a dump, but since Wohlford Place isn’t open yet, I’d no choice.”
“I thought you were in the hospital.”
Lucianne gave a sharp laugh. “Couldn’t stay. Work to do. And since Jared’s and my divorce was final last year, I’m not exactly welcome at our old house.”
“Having second thoughts?” If she could have, she would have bitten back the words the instant they left her mouth.
“Why? Are you interested?”
“Hardly. Eddy has been gone only a few months.”
“Jared better not wait too long to make a move. When you become a famous writer, you’ll probably leave town, too.”
“When I become…?”
“Don’t be coy, Royce. That’s why I want to meet with you. Maybe I can drum up some publicity for your book.”
“Why would you do that if you think I’m after Jared?”
“Lighten up, Royce. I guess you never even caught on that Jared had a thing for his partner’s wife. That he joined the Marines because of it.”
Royce’s grip on the shoulder strap of her bag tightened visibly. She stepped back.
Lucianne narrowed her eyes, missing nothing. “Or did you?”
“But he came back and married you.”
“Well, you still weren’t available.”
“Why did you marry him?”
“I wasn’t getting any younger. And it was a boost to my career, first crack at some juicy stories. Don’t look so shocked. You asked.”
Royce was bereft of words. What Lucianne had seen on her face was not shock at the woman’s admission about why she’d married Jared. It was the revelation that Hal Woodstone’s jeering words at their engagement party had been true. She forced her attention back to the present, flung her own question at the reporter.
“What juicy story brings you back to Fall Creek? And did it require you to carry a gun?”
“Prominent local businessman robbed and murdered. Pretty big story for Fall Creek.”
“I heard you were here before Bert’s murder was discovered.”
Lucianne examined Royce’s expression and offered additional information. “All right. I saw the review of your book in my paper. Thought I’d come down and see if I could get a nice little human-interest story out of it. Hometown writer makes good, et cetera. Just my good luck to stumble into a bigger story, the Morrell robbery/murder.”
“Bigger story? Is that all it is to you?”
“Hey, I’m sorry your little neighbor boy is in trouble. But it’s not my fault.”
Speechless, Royce turned away and marched toward the motel entrance.
“Royce,” Lucianne called. “I still want to discuss your book. Meet you later.”
Chapter Fourteen
Royce pushed into the motel lobby which had been done with a green and white nature motif. Someone had attempted to conceal its age and worn-out air with numerous lush, green-leaved plants and indoor trees. Discolored skylights added their dim light to lamps on tables next to scattered sofas and chairs. The room only deepened the depression which had settled on Royce after her visits to the morgue and with Palm and her conversation with Lucianne Sibley. Behind a scratched oak counter, a pretty young woman talked on the telephone and fingered a black ringlet trailing down the side of her face. She put down the phone.
“Yes, ma’am, may I help you?” Her bright smile displayed sparkling, perfectly capped teeth.
“Hello, Vicki. Decided library science wasn’t for you after all?” Vicki Trask had been a senior intern at the library a couple of years ago, and Royce had seen her often while doing research for her magazine articles.
The girl had not seemed charmed by the library job. Often when Royce approached the reference desk, Vicki would hurry toward the office. If no one else was available, she would return and take Royce’s list of requested items with reluctance, saying, “You sure do need a lot of reference stuff, Mrs. Thorne.” So this was where she’d wound up after graduation.
“Hello, Mrs. Thorne. Mom’s the bookkeeper here. She asked the manager to try me on the desk. I like things a little livelier than they were at the library.”
Royce stepped into the opening. “There was certainly enough excitement here this weekend.”
“Oh, yeah. You mean the woman who got beat up. I wasn’t on duty on Sunday when they found her though.” Regret echoed in the girl’s voice. Perhaps realizing she might sound a little callous, she added, “The poor woman. It sure was awful.”
“Were you on duty the day she checked in? Friday, was it?”
“Oh, yeah. She just walked in here. I didn’t see no taxi or anything. Carrying that tote bag on her shoulder.”
“That was all the luggage she had?”
Vicki’s smooth forehead wrinkled a little as she remembered. “Even that seemed like it was almost too heavy for her. She must’ve been tired.”
“She didn’t mention where she’d come from? How far, I mean?”
“No. Just asked for a room.”
“Did she say how long she’d be needing the room?”
“I already told the police all this, Mrs. Thorne.”
“How long did she say she’d be staying?”
“I guess it’s all right to talk to you about it.”
The girl’s sentence ended with a questioning inflection that Royce ignored. “Where is the room she was in, Vicki?”
“It’s on the end, the east wing, over there.” She pointed back and to the left. The single-story section of the motel housing the office jutted out twenty feet or so at right angles to the main building, which was two stories high. “Ground floor.”
She chewed her full lower lip for a moment, wrapped a silky lock of hair around an index finger, and decided to deliver a final piece of information. “She said she’d just be needing the room for a couple of days.”
“I wonder if I could see it.”
“You’d have to ask the policeman, Officer Rogers. He’s supposed to be ‘keeping it secure,’ he said.”
“Oh, Greg Rogers. Where is he?”
“Out there somewhere. He may be helping the cops going over that other room—the one the robber was in.”
Royce supposed she meant the room in which Palm was found. She suppressed the impulse to warn Vicki of the hazards of drawing conclusions from too little information. “Where is that room?”
“Same wing, on the back side, behin
d the dead woman’s room, actually. Looks like he would’ve heard the commotion when she was being beat up. Guess he had other things on his mind.”
Royce was walking to the door. She turned back. “What other things?”
“You know.” Vicki lifted her shapely chin a little, having caught a hint of the resentment Royce tried, without total success, to keep from her voice. “Counting the money.”
Royce stared a moment, then shrugged and again took a step toward the door. “Thank you, Vicki.”
“Those rooms connect, you know,” Vicki said to her back.
When Royce wheeled around again, she was standing with arms crossed and an expression on her face that Royce couldn’t identify. But if pressed she would have said it looked like vengeful satisfaction. “What do you mean, they connect?”
“The four rooms on the end of that wing. They all have two connecting doors. So if you have a big family or a bunch of people traveling together, they can all go in and out of each other’s rooms without going outside, if they want.”
“But I suppose they’re usually locked, if the rooms are rented individually?”
“Oh, sure. There’s two separate doors, right together, a few inches apart.” She illustrated, putting her palms together, a couple of inches between them. “Each one has its own lock, opening into the connecting room. But the other two rooms were empty on Saturday.”
“You told the police about the connecting doors, I’m sure.” She could not see what it had to do with anything. What she had to find out was the reason Palm was here and why he had tried to call Fern Rock.
As though she had read her mind, Vicki spoke, having become a veritable fount of information. “Maybe it was the robber that called here and asked for her, to see if she’d been found. But she’d already died at the hospital.”
So she hadn’t recognized Palm’s voice when he called from the jail. Royce was reminded to ask, “Did you rent the room to him when he checked in?”
“No. None of us remembers renting it to him. It’s funny.”
“But his name was on the register?”
“Sure was. Palm Woodstone. Plain as day.” There was more than a hint of malicious satisfaction in her tone now.
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