by Jill Behe
“All right. According to his wife, he came back from the lake pretty messed up. What if he almost hit Wylie-James? We know they were both in the same area at approximately the same time; at least, they were both on the same road at about the same time. That gives us a window to work with.”
That was much too vague for me. “Doesn’t tell us who was driving Miranda’s car, or how it ended up in the swamp, or who hit Wylie-James in the head.”
Wyatt gave me a sour look. “I didn’t say it was fool-proof.”
“Okay, so which one thunked Wylie-James in the head?”
Wyatt and Ricky shrugged.
“Beats me.”
Ricky lowered his feet. “How about: Ridge is driving back from the lake—all lit up, forces a car off the road, then loses control of his own and slides off in a ditch. He gets out to see how bad he’s stuck and sees the tail end of Miranda’s car going under the muck. He goes over thinking she’s inside, but there isn’t anybody in it. Then he sees someone climbing up the other side and thinks maybe somebody stole her car for a joy ride and crashed. He goes around and clunks the guy in the head. Then he sees who it is and panics.”
“Possibility,” Wyatt reasoned, nodding. “And, he’s so drunk he can’t call it in or he’ll get charged with a DUI. But, that’s pretty callous of him, to just leave Wylie-James like that.”
“Maybe,” Ricky speculated, “he intended to call once he got home, but because of his inebriated state, he forgets all about it.”
“Okay. But, who was driving Miranda’s car?”
My brain itched. Something about Ellie’s confession was giving it fits. Leafing randomly through Miranda’s diary, I hoped whatever was disturbing my gray cells, would leap from the pages of the girl’s mad scribbling and smack me in the face.
Wyatt took a call from the hospital in the middle of our meeting. He then informed us that though the mayor was still alive, there was so much damage to his head, the doctors were not optimistic about his recovery. Brain scans showed very little activity. At this point, if he did survive the next twenty-four hours, he’d be a vegetable.
“So, if Ridge took Ellie out to the swimming hole to confess what he’d done, wouldn’t that make him the killer, even though he has an alibi for the time of the murder?”
Wyatt looked up from his note pad. “That’s what Ellie told us, Rick, but we don’t know if that’s true. Sorry. She’s pathetic and did a bang-up job of being remorseful, but I don’t take anything she says as gospel.
“We have no way to confirm that he actually drank all the beer he bought, but if he was as drunk as he should have been—after twenty-four bottles—there’s no way he could have been coordinated enough to hang Miranda. It’s a miracle he even made it home in one piece.”
“It would be so much easier if he was the killer.”
“It would. Yes. Unfortunately, murderers aren’t always the obvious choice, no matter how much we wish they were.”
I’d not been paying close attention to their conversation, trying as I was to remember what it was Ellie had said during her ‘confession’ that had snagged my attention. Then, there it was, in bright pink ink. “Of course!”
“What’s up?”
“Sorry, I’ve been wracking my brain for the last few minutes.” I rolled my eyes, disgusted that it took so long. “While Ellie was giving her statement, she said something that bothered me. I didn’t have time to figure it out, at the time.” My fingers tapped the journal. “I just reread a couple of the early entries, from before Miranda hid the real diary.
“Last we talked, remember me telling you how Miranda described everything in super explicit detail, and about how Ridge promised her he would divorce Ellie, right?”
They nodded.
“Well, Ellie ranted about how ludicrous it was that Ridge would want a divorce to marry Miranda, even if she did get pregnant on purpose. Something in that statement caught my attention at the time, but I couldn’t stop to puzzle it out cuz she was still spouting. I finally figured it out.”
“Do tell. Pay attention, Rick. I have a feeling, we’re about to be enlightened by the stunning sleuthing skills of our very own Miss Maggie.”
Ricky grinned. “Hold on, let me get my notepad out.”
“You guys are going to pay for that.”
“That’s okay. I like—”
“Don’t even.”
Ricky hooted, but otherwise kept quiet.
Wyatt folded his arms and nodded to me. “Go on, Maggie. What did you find?”
“Ellie knew too much.”
“About what?”
“If you’d quit interrupting, I’d be able to finish this.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“How did she know Ridge wanted to marry Miranda? How did she know the girl was even pregnant, let alone that she’d gotten that way deliberately? We didn’t know about the baby until the coroner told us. The only way Eleanor Patterson could have known, was if she had read the diary.”
“Ridge could have told her when they were out at the swimming hole. I’m just thinking of possibilities. Doesn’t mean that’s how it went down.”
“You’re right, Rick. But, I really doubt he’d admit Miranda was pregnant, especially if—as Ellie told us—he was trying to convince her the affair didn’t mean anything, and he wanted her back.”
“I see your point.”
“There again, we don’t know exactly what happened, or who said what. We only have Ellie’s version, and we’ve all agreed her story’s too perfect.”
“All right, Miss Marple, let’s say you’re right. What do you conclude?” Wyatt smiled.
I wrinkled my nose. “Ellie Patterson was … is, a very cold, calculating, conniving little snot of a good actress. I don’t think she told us the truth. Well, not much, if any at all. I’d say she probably changed most of it around to suit her purpose. So, my conclusion is that she is Miranda’s killer.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, the mayor’s guilty, but not of Miranda’s death. I think Ellie murdered Miranda in a fit of jealous rage, which could give her an out—although I’m fairly certain it was pre-meditated—as was the assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, etcetera, etcetera, of her husband.”
Wyatt was nodding. “Excellent deduction.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
Ricky frowned. “This isn’t a game, ya know. Doesn’t it make you mad? I’m mad.”
“Of course it does.” Wyatt answered. “And we’re not joking. Do you have a better scenario?”
“No. Yes. No. I don’t know. Maybe I’m too sympathetic. I felt bad for Mrs. Patterson. I was sure the mayor did it, but couldn’t figure out a way to break his alibi.”
I leaned over and patted his hand. “No such thing as too sympathetic, not in my book. You did a great job, especially the way you handled finding the body.”
He rolled his neck. “Yeah, well, some of it still doesn’t make sense to me.”
“What’s bugging you, Rick?”
“How did skinny little Ellie Patterson hoist a healthy muscular cheerleader up to a rope swing over the swimming hole?”
“Maggie? Any suggestions?”
“I can’t speak to the state of her present physical condition, but according to the background checks we did, she won several trophies while on her high school gymnastic team. In fact, she went to college on a full scholarship. I’m thinking she has, a lot more upper-body strength than we give her credit for. That, and the kick of adrenalin, probably gave her enough muscle to pull Miranda up.”
“I agree, but there’s more.” Wyatt had the case file open in front of him. “She majored in science, so she would know and understand the mechanics of a pulley-fulcrum system.”
Ricky folded his arms over his chest. “Which means, she’d know what to buy in order to build a lever system by herself. It’s starting to make sense, now. I couldn’t picture her…. Well, never mind. But, how do we prove it?”
“Ed’s ha
rdware would be the most likely place to buy the items she’d need. Check with Ed or Harlan, see if they remember her coming in.”
“You want me to do that now?” Ricky looked at his watch. “They’re open.”
“Sure.” Wyatt made a note. “We need all the physical evidence we can get.”
“She’s already confessed, more or less, but that may not stand up in court.”
“First things first. Ricky, we’re about ready to wrap this up. I still want you to go over to the hardware store, and get as much information as you can, just not yet. Based on the verbal evidence—gathered and recorded by our very own receptionist—I agree with Maggie that Ellie Patterson is our murderer.” Wyatt slapped the file closed, pushed back his chair, and stood. “I also think that she is so confident of her acting abilities, she is certain she got away with murder. That will make this all the sweeter.”
Ricky frowned at me. “Make what sweeter?”
I didn’t know what Wyatt had in mind, but grinned.
He smiled at the rookie. “The best way to catch a killer is off guard. I have no doubt it’ll be a real big surprise when we show up. Officer Anderson, go get your hat. We’re going to arrest the mayor’s wife.”
CHAPTER 28
JUST AN UPDATE on what’s happened the last few weeks.
After our tête-à-tête in the office that Sunday, Wyatt and Ricky took off for Ellie Patterson’s house, siren shrilling. About two miles out, they cut it off, not wanting to give her any warning.
Wyatt went up to the door, calm as you please, with Ricky right behind, and asked to speak with Ellie. Her father led them to the dining room, where the family was having supper. Without preamble, Wyatt asked her to please stand, and then read her her rights.
Ricky told me after that first gasp of shock, she broke into tears, just like before. Wyatt cuffed her, and the ranting and raving began. He told her to be quiet, that she could say her piece once she got to the station.
Back in the conference room, Wyatt set up the recorder. This time he asked her if she wanted a lawyer. Subdued and hoarse, by now, she said no, again, and proceeded to confess to killing Miranda, and to beating and almost killing her husband—though she had thought she’d succeeded.
She said Miranda didn’t want to cooperate (I wonder why) and accidently hit her head on the desk, trying to get away. Ellie thought the fall killed the little interloper, and that maybe she could twist it to look like suicide.
Who would ever suspect the mayor’s wife of complicity?
Just for spite, she’d stripped idiot meddler, and redressed her in the cheerleader suit. She got spooked when Miranda revived. She couldn’t let her live, there was too much at stake, and so the strangling commenced. Commenting on how much harder it was than she imagined it would be—and to lug the disgusting girl out and down the stairs—she said using Miranda’s car was an ingenious change in plans, and dumped the girl in the trunk.
The swimming hole was expedient and secluded, but public enough that someone would find the slutty teen quickly. Once there though, Miranda came to, again. Ellie was spooked and furious. No way could she let the girl go, not now. Miranda would ruin her life, if she recovered.
Ellie, putting her science knowledge into play, used the big over-hanging branch of the oak tree as a pulley, hauled the rope up, then watched as her nemesis kicked and twisted, and then stopped moving.
How cold do you have to be in order to watch something like that?
I know, right?
She started to drive back to Miranda’s house, but decided to ditch the car. Old Bear Creek Swamp was on the right, so she got as close to the edge as she could. That backfired somewhat. Her jacket caught in the door when she jumped out, after putting the car in neutral and rolling it down the bank. She couldn’t get free in time, and the momentum pulled her along and into the muck.
Once she staggered out of the swamp and up on the road, some drunk almost ran her over. Back at home, every time she looked at Ridge, she remembered what he’d done with Miranda. The funeral though, was the last straw. With the way her husband was acting, she realized Ridge really did love that promiscuous home wrecker. Ellie wanted him to pay.
It was her idea to go out to the swimming hole, where she told him what she’d done. Apparently, he went a little mad, and tried to strangle her.
I would have too, I think.
Brandishing her conveniently prearranged weapon—the tire iron—Ellie hit him, and hit him, and hit him. When she finally stopped, and the red haze of rage began to clear, she had the presence of mind to realize she might need a good story. Since the cheater was dead and couldn’t contradict her, she could claim self-defense, and get away with two murders.
What a sick bitch.
Wyatt formally charged her with the pre-meditated murder of Miranda Richards, and the aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder of Ridge Patterson, for a start. Wyatt put her in the patrol car and Rick drove her up to the county lockup in Waynesburg for holding.
Ridge, irreparably brain damaged, and with no living will, became a patient at The Sundale Nursing Home down in Morgantown, West Virginia. Ellie wouldn’t pull the plug, or allow the doctors to do it, since she was the reason he was there in the first place. It might be a guilty conscience, or maybe she just wants him to continue to suffer—although he’s far beyond that ability.
Either way, she refuses to talk about it anymore. She did sign over custody of Kendall to her parents.
Ricky’s talk with Harlan Bates, manager of the hardware store, proved to be a gold mine. The man even made us copies of the receipts proving Ellie’d bought the tackle and rope used to kill Miranda. Which, pretty much, left no doubt the woman would be going away for very long time.
The DA’s talking life without parole.
Because of his condition, Ridge escaped prosecution by the skin of his chin. Though I’m sure, if he had the wherewithal to choose, would opt for jail time over his present state.
Annetta mentioned she saw a for sale sign on the front lawn of the mayor’s house. No doubt, Ellie’s going to need the money for her defense.
Mac went to visit. Not a good idea.
He started raging … sobbing, about how Ellie’d taken his only child, and the only grandchild he would ever have. Officers at the jail had to pull him off the bars and escort him from the building. He’s now going to grief counseling, and spending a lot of time out at the lake.
Wyatt’s keeping an eye on him. He made Mac start carrying a cell phone—turned on and charged at all times. Since their second Binging event, this time with a couple more of their mutual buddies, Mac’s been looking better, too; not so gaunt and ragged, anymore.
I’m going over to his place next week, with Annetta and some other ladies from the church. We’ll be cleaning out Miranda’s room, sans Mac’s keepsakes. Everything else goes to the Salvation Army. Once that’s done and over with, Mac’s putting the house on the market. He wants something smaller, and without the memories.
Men. God Bless ’em.
He’ll always have the memories, they’re impossible to outrun. Over time, they mellow and the sharpness fades, becoming cherished bits of history—ones we want to keep and wish were clearer.
Wyatt reopened the swimming hole.
The heat and humidity of summer is upon us, and the refreshing cold mountain melt is a welcome relief. Mac and that man of mine put up a small memorial to Miranda, on a particular big oak that shades the pool.
It looks great.
The Town Council’s having an emergency meeting in the next few days (supposedly), to elect a new mayor. I told Wyatt to be careful, or someone would nominate him. He doesn’t believe me. It wouldn’t take but one little whisper in a certain someone’s ear, and the job would be his. He doesn’t want it, though. He likes being police chief too much.
And, I sure won’t be the one doing the whispering. I don’t want him to be mayor, either.
Geez.
&nbs
p; Can you see me as the First Lady of Mossy Creek?
Hey, I’m sure you didn’t mean to spray coffee all in my face.
Wylie-James is home from the hospital. There’s still a big bruise on his head, but it’s that yucky yellow-green color, that usually means its healing fast. BJ told the man, in no uncertain terms, that he was moving in to keep an eye on his only living grandfather.
Granddad made no protest.
Speaking of BJ, he and Evey Peters have begun dating. They make a really cute couple. BJ got a haircut and shaved his almost beard. He looks downright spiffy.
Working part-time at the restaurant, Evey’s recovering. Annetta’s talking about giving her full-time. The girl has lost that scared, deer-in-the-headlights look.
That’s a good thing.
Susie surprised me the other day. Came by to say hello and thank us again for our help and support. All the bags she brought in made a mess in the office. The aftermath of stress shopping, so she said. Seems Danny Harris asked her out and she’s nervous.
Can you believe it? Danny Harris, of all people. Hope his move to date isn’t a lame attempt at landing a story about her experiences with the former Mayor of Mossy Creek. (I’d have something to say—or do—to him, then.) I’m secretly hoping she gets wise and dumps him. She deserves better than that snarky little pipsqueak.
I finally got a chance to ask her how she happened to be carrying little Kendall that Sunday afternoon. She said she’d been about to leave the church after choir practice, when my call came through to Reverend Blanchard. He saw her in the parking lot, and asked if she’d mind watching the boy while his mother was talking to me. Armed only with the limited details I’d given him, he’d revealed a bit about the situation. She felt sorry for Kendall and agreed.
Ricky, too, took the dating plunge, asking Lancy Farnsworth to dinner—to help him celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday. He told me he’d had his eye on her in high school, but as she was such a popular cheerleader, he didn’t think she’d give him the time of day. When he told her that, she’d smacked his arm, and stomped off. He couldn’t understand why.