Scandal in Fair Haven

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Scandal in Fair Haven Page 6

by Carolyn G. Hart


  "Oh, yes. Of co­ur­se. But that's not all. The mur­de­rer knew whe­re you kept yo­ur gun. The mur­de­rer knew you well eno­ugh to be su­re you'd co­me when Patty Kay cal­led. And you know the mur­de­rer well eno­ugh to re­cog­ni­ze his or her vo­ice."

  "Oh, my God." His fa­ce crum­p­led li­ke new­s­pa­per left out in the ra­in.

  1 glan­ced at my watch. Twel­ve mi­nu­tes left.,

  "Listen, Cra­ig. We don't ha­ve much ti­me."

  He didn't lo­ok ca­pab­le of tho­ught. His fa­ce was as­hen, his eyes blank. 1 had so­me ur­gent, sharp, hard qu­es­ti­ons for him. But it was bet­ter to start slowly.

  I le­aned clo­se. "When did you le­ave the bo­ok­s­to­re Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on?"

  He he­si­ta­ted. His eye­lids flic­ke­red. "Abo­ut-abo­ut fo­ur o'clock."

  "Did you go di­rectly to the de­li?"

  "Yes." He so­un­ded mo­re as­su­red.

  "How long do­es that ta­ke?"

  "Twenty- five mi­nu­tes. It's in Gre­en Hills."

  The bo­ok­s­to­re was on the out­s­kirts of Fa­ir Ha­ven. I wo­uld ti­me the dri­ve to the de­li in Gre­en Hills, a Nas­h­vil­le shop­ping cen­ter.:

  "How long we­re you at the de­li?"

  "It to­ok a whi­le. May­be ten, fif­te­en mi­nu­tes. See, I was su­re they had an or­der and lost it or so­met­hing. Be­ca­use Patty Kay"-he cle­ared his thro­at-"didn't ma­ke mis­ta­kes. At le­ast, not very of­ten."

  "So you had them hunt for the or­der."

  "And then, well, 1 de­ci­ded I'd bet­ter get a fru­it bas­ket. 1 tho­ught may­be it was go­ing to be a gift for Bro­oke. Bro­oke For­rest. From the trus­te­es."

  "What trus­te­es?"

  "Walden Scho­ol. Patty was pre­si­dent of the bo­ard. Bro­oke-she's a trus­tee too-he­aded up a fund dri­ve for the scho­ol that bro­ught in al­most forty tho­usand dol­lars this ye­ar. Patty Kay was ha­ving the trus­te­es to din­ner that night."

  My ears al­ways prick up at the men­ti­on of mo­ney.

  "Forty tho­usand dol­lars? Whe­re is that mo­ney?"

  "In the en­dow­ment fund, 1 sup­po­se. They had a big party out at scho­ol last we­ek, ho­no­ring Bro­oke."

  "Could she ha­ve pin­c­hed so­me of it?"

  "Brooke?" As­to­nis­h­ment lif­ted his vo­ice. "No, lo­ok, Mrs.-"

  "Henrie O," I mur­mu­red.

  He cle­ared his thro­at. "Hen­rie O."

  I ho­ped he ma­na­ged not to so­und qu­ite so self-con­s­ci­o­us when he spo­ke my na­me in the fu­tu­re.

  "Brooke wasn't han­d­ling cash. She got pled­ges, checks, gifts. And be­si­des, forty tho­usand dol­lars is pe­anuts to a For­rest. I me­an, Patty Kay's mur­der co­uldn't ha­ve an­y­t­hing to do with the fund dri­ve. But I tho­ught that might be why

  Patty Kay wan­ted the fru­it. I tho­ught may­be it was go­ing to be a sur­p­ri­se for Bro­oke, sin­ce the din­ner party was a last-mi­nu­te thing."

  The ti­ming of a din­ner party hardly se­emed a mat­ter of cos­mic im­por­tan­ce. But not­hing in Patty Kay's li­fe that fa­te­ful Sa­tur­day co­uld be over­lo­oked.

  "Really? When did Patty Kay plan it?"

  "Friday, I gu­ess. I didn't know abo­ut it un­til I got ho­me from the bo­ok­s­to­re Fri­day af­ter­no­on. Patty Kay sa­id she'd chan­ged our play­ho­use tic­kets-we we­re sup­po­sed to go to Char­ley's Aunt Sa­tur­day nig­ht-and in­s­te­ad she was ha­ving the trus­te­es over."

  A spur- of-the-moment din­ner party. In­te­res­ting. "Why?"

  "She didn't say."

  "You didn't ask her?"

  He shot a glan­ce to­ward the open do­or­way, then hun­c­hed clo­ser to me. "She wasn't in a go­od mo­od Fri­day."

  "What do you me­an?"

  "She'd be­en fig­h­ting with so­me­body. Her eyes-Pat­ty Kay's eyes glin­ted when she was mad and her fa­ce tur­ned red." He ga­ve a small shrug. "I tho­ught may­be she and Pa­me­la had got­ten in­to it aga­in."

  Pamela. The not-clo­se sis­ter. This, too, ne­eded to be pur­su­ed. But ti­me was slip­ping away. Eight mi­nu­tes left. So lit­tle ti­me. So much that I wan­ted to know. Li­ke: Did you lo­ve yo­ur wi­fe? But I tho­ught I knew the an­s­wer. Cra­ig was dis­t­ra­ught, up­set, shoc­ked by vi­olent de­ath, but I had no sen­se of so­ul-se­aring gri­ef. In ba­lan­ce, I had no sen­se of smol­de­ring an­ger eit­her.

  Right now the last-mi­nu­te din­ner party to­ok pre­ce­den­ce.

  "Tell me abo­ut Wal­den Scho­ol."

  "Kindergarten thro­ugh high scho­ol. Ever­y­body sends the­ir kids the­re."

  "A pri­va­te scho­ol?"

  "Oh, su­re."

  So, not ever­y­body.

  "How many trus­te­es on the bo­ard?"

  "Six. In­c­lu­ding Patty Kay."

  I wro­te down the­ir na­mes: Des­mond Ma­ri­no, Bro­oke For­rest, Stu­art Pi­er­ce, Wil­lis Gut­h­rie, Cheryl Kraft.

  Desmond Ma­ri­no was Patty Kay's old fri­end.

  Brooke For­rest was an ac­ti­ve vo­lun­te­er.

  Stuart Pi­er­ce was Patty Kay's first hus­band.

  Willis Gut­h­rie was her brot­her-in-law.

  "Cheryl Kraft?" I as­ked Cra­ig.

  "Oh, Cheryl's in­to ever­y­t­hing. Just li­ke Patty Kay and Bro­oke. She's pre­si­dent of AA­UW right now, I think. And she's on the city co­un­cil. Patty Kay li­ked Cheryl a lot."

  "They we­re all in­vi­ted, in­c­lu­ding hus­bands or wi­ves?"

  "Yes. And the he­ad­mas­ter, Chuck Selwyn."

  Seven mi­nu­tes.

  "Okay, Cra­ig. Back to Sa­tur­day. What ti­me did you le­ave the de­li?"

  "Twenty to fi­ve. 1 no­ti­ced the clock on the wall be­hind the cash re­gis­ter." His fa­ce brig­h­te­ned. "I think the lady at the de­li'll re­mem­ber. I me­an, I ma­de her kind of mad be­ca­use I tho­ught they'd lost the or­der. 1 was in a hurry. I was af­ra­id may­be I'd ta­ken too long and Patty Kay wo­uld be mad. So 1 dro­ve fast. It was right at fi­ve when 1 got ho­me."

  "Was the­re an­y­t­hing out of the or­di­nary when you pul­led in­to the dri­ve­way?"

  "I don't know." He lif­ted his hands and the ma­nac­les rat­tled. He gla­red down at the shiny ste­el pe­evishly. "Damn things hurt." His to­ne was pla­in­ti­ve.

  "You got ho­me," 1 re­min­ded him.

  "I jum­ped out of the car and hur­ri­ed in­si­de. With the bas­ket. And you know the rest." He was sud­denly we­ary.

  "No, the­re's much I don't know. Don't qu­it now, Cra­ig. Think abo­ut what you saw. Think abo­ut it. Pic­tu­re it."

  He mo­ved res­ti­vely, the ste­el shac­k­les clin­king, but to my re­li­ef he frow­ned in con­cen­t­ra­ti­on.

  Six mi­nu­tes.

  "Go back to it. You've just wal­ked in­to the kit­c­hen. Lo­ok at the flo­or. Re­mem­ber the flo­or. What did you see?"

  "The stuff was so dark aga­inst the wo­od. See, the kit­c­hen's all light gol­den wo­od, the ca­bi­nets, the flo­or. The­re was li­qu­e­ur splas­hed on the ca­bi­nets and all over the flo­or by the back do­or. The cre­me de ca­cao bot­tle was on the flo­or. The ro­om smel­led li­ke a bar. I le­aned over and pic­ked up the bot­tle and put it on the tab­le."

  The fly had cer­ta­inly ma­de it easy for the spi­der. But the­re was no po­int in scol­ding him now.

  "Did you step in­to the mess?"

  "Not then. When you co­me in­to the kit­c­hen, our bre­ak­fast ro­om is to the right. Stra­ight ahe­ad is the back do­or, oh, may­be fif­te­en fe­et. The­re are cup­bo­ards and co­un­ters and the sinks and dis­h­was­her to the left. The­re's a long bu­ilt-up thing in the mid­dle of the kit­c­hen. Patty Kay cal­led it a co­oking is­land. It has cup­bo­ards abo­ve it. The ovens and the mic­ro­wa­ve are on the wall to the left as y
ou first step in­si­de."

  The go­ur­met co­ok had ap­pa­rently enj­oyed a lu­xu­ri­o­us kit­c­hen.

  "The li­qu­e­urs and co­oking stuff we­re spil­led all aro­und the is­land."

  I didn't want to le­ad my wit­ness, but I had to know. Fo­ur mi­nu­tes to go.

  "How many fo­ot­p­rints did you see?"

  "In the stuff on the flo­or?"

  "Yes."

  Abruptly, he sho­ok his he­ad. "The­re we­ren't any fo­ot­p­rints. Just stuff, splat­te­red."

  No fo­ot­p­rints at all.

  "Okay, Cra­ig. Qu­ick. Whe­re did you ke­ep that gun?"

  He flin­c­hed.

  "Look, I know you fo­und it the­re-so­mew­he­re-and that you to­ok it with you when you ran. And didn't say an­y­t­hing abo­ut that lit­tle fact when we tal­ked at the ca­bin. But that's be­hind us. For now. Whe­re did you ke­ep the gun?"

  Two mi­nu­tes.

  He sta­red at the dull gre­en flo­or. "In the car poc­ket."

  "The poc­ket of yo­ur Por­s­c­he?"

  "Yes."

  "When did you last see it?"

  He lif­ted be­wil­de­red eyes. "I don't know. I ne­ver pa­id any at­ten­ti­on. This was a thing Patty Kay had. She sa­id you co­uldn't tell what might hap­pen out on the ro­ad and she wan­ted each car to ha­ve a gun in it."

  "So you fo­und the gun. Whe­re?"

  He sta­red down at his ma­nac­led hands. "In the grass. Ne­ar the play­ho­use. 1 pic­ked it up. I didn't know what had hap­pe­ned. I just saw it. 1 knew it sho­uldn't be lying the­re."

  One mi­nu­te.

  It wasn't go­ing to be eno­ugh.

  "Why did you try to hi­de it?"

  His eyes shif­ted away from mi­ne. His mo­uth fol­ded in a stub­born li­ne.

  "What did you wrap it in?" I per­sis­ted.

  He didn't an­s­wer.

  Only se­conds left now. I had one mo­re vi­tal qu­es­ti­on to ask.

  "Craig, lo­ok at me."

  He didn't want to, but slowly, re­luc­tantly, he lif­ted his he­ad.

  The ja­iler's fo­ot­s­teps so­un­ded in the hall.

  "Who wo­uld want to kill Patty Kay?"

  Something-uncertainty? fe­ar? hor­ror?-flickered in his eyes for just an in­s­tant. Then, vi­olently, he sho­ok his he­ad. "It's crazy! I tell you, it's crazy. No­body'd want to kill her. No­body!"

  I fol­lo­wed the dis­pat­c­her down the hall. Ne­ar the front en­t­ran­ce, I saw gold let­ters on a do­or to my right: cap­ta­in,

  J. T. WALSH.

  I stop­ped and knoc­ked.

  The dis­pat­c­her ga­ve a lit­tle gasp. "You can't-"

  "Of co­ur­se I can."

  "I'm sup­po­sed to-"

  Guard the por­tal, ob­vi­o­usly. But the do­or was al­re­ady ope­ning.

  I held out my hand. "Cap­ta­in Walsh, I'm Hen­ri­et­ta Col­lins. Cra­ig Mat­thews's aunt."

  Captain Walsh was tall, dark, le­an, cle­an-sha­ven, and han­d­so­me, a 1950s mo­vi­ema­ker's dre­am of a po­li­ce­man. Be­fo­re Cen­t­ral Cas­ting went in for re­al fa­ces.

  I re­cog­ni­zed the type, not com­mon among po­li­ce. A po­li­ti­co, the kind of cat who wo­uld al­ways jump the right way. Not qu­ite smarmy, but clo­se.

  His han­d­s­ha­ke was just right, firm but not too firm.

  "Hello, Mrs. Col­lins. I ho­pe yo­ur me­eting with yo­ur nep­hew was sa­tis­fac­tory.". His vo­ice was smo­oth and de­ep.

  "Very. I'm con­fi­dent Cra­ig is in­no­cent, Cap­ta­in."

  "Yes, ma'am." His to­ne re­ma­ined po­li­te, his strong-bo­ned fa­ce im­pas­si­ve.

  I co­uld ima­gi­ne Walsh's di­lem­ma. He was ac­cus­to­med

  to tre­ating the well-to-do in­ha­bi­tants of Fa­ir Ha­ven with de­fe­ren­ce. He cer­ta­inly didn't want to be dis­co­ur­te­o­us to a re­la­ti­ve of a rich re­si­dent-just in ca­se Mat­thews did turn out to be in­no­cent. Ob­vi­o­usly, the cap­ta­in had ag­re­ed to per­mit my me­eting with Cra­ig in or­der to re­ma­in on go­od terms with Des­mond Ma­ri­no.

  Perhaps I co­uld ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge of his am­bi­va­len­ce and al­so of his pro­bab­le inex­pe­ri­en­ce with mur­der. I do­ub­ted that Fa­ir Ha­ven was a hot­bed of vi­olen­ce, eit­her stre­et or do­mes­tic.

  I smi­led up at him. "May 1 vi­sit with you for a few mi­nu­tes, Cap­ta­in?"

  His ex­p­res­si­on didn't chan­ge. "Of co­ur­se, Mrs. Col­lins." He step­ped asi­de for me to en­ter his of­fi­ce.

  This of­fi­ce, too, was lig­ht-ye­ars dis­tant from big-city re­ali­ti­es. In­s­te­ad of desks jam­med cor­ner to cor­ner or a dingy cu­bic­le that smel­led li­ke old ci­ga­ret­te butts, ta­ke­o­ut ham­bur­gers, and swe­at, Walsh's of­fi­ce was bright and airy. The­re we­re fra­med dip­lo­mas on one wall, a lar­ge-sca­le map of Fa­ir Ha­ven on anot­her. The thick scent of cherry pi­pe to­bac­co pro­vi­ded a fusty but dis­tin­c­ti­vely mas­cu­li­ne aro­ma. Walsh wa­ited un­til I was se­ated in an unex­pec­tedly com­for­tab­le cha­ir, then he to­ok his pla­ce be­hind a shiny gray me­tal desk.

  "Captain, 1 wo­uld be very gra­te­ful if you wo­uld des­c­ri­be the co­ur­se of yo­ur in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. Be­gin­ning with the call that bro­ught yo­ur of­fi­cers to the Mat­thews ho­me."

  He fin­ge­red a bright oran­ge ma­ni­la fol­der. "The go­al of the Fa­ir Ha­ven po­li­ce is to ser­ve our com­mu­nity, Mrs. Col­lins. I am happy to ma­ke ava­ilab­le to you the fi­nal re­port pro­vi­ded to the news me­dia."

  With that he flip­ped open the fol­der, pic­ked up a com­pu­ter prin­to­ut, and le­aned ac­ross the desk to hand it to me.

  I re­ad it swiftly.

  There we­re se­ve­ral in­te­res­ting items:

  A call re­por­ting a ho­mi­ci­de at 1903 King's Row Ro­ad was re­ce­ived at 5:06 p.m. Sa­tur­day by Dis­pat­c­her Har­ri­et Keys. The cal­ler spo­ke in a de­ep whis­per and hung up when as­ked to re­pe­at the in­for­ma­ti­on. Dis­pat­c­her Keys con­tac­ted car three on pat­rol in that area. Car three ar­ri­ved at the Mat­thews re­si­den­ce at 5:09 p.m. Pat­rol­man Wes­ley Ad-kins fo­und the front do­or open. No one res­pon­ded to Ad-kins's re­pe­ated calls. He se­ar­c­hed the pre­mi­ses and at 5:12 p.m. dis­co­ve­red the body of a mid­dle-aged whi­te fe­ma­le (la­ter iden­ti­fi­ed as Mrs. Patty Kay Pre­miss Pi­er­ce Mat­thews) in a struc­tu­re be­hind the ma­in ho­use. Pat­rol­man Ad­kins im­me­di­ately no­ti­fi­ed…

  The ti­ming fit in with my the­ory that the mur­de­rer had wat­c­hed the ho­use then aler­ted the po­li­ce as so­on as Cra­ig ar­ri­ved.

  The se­cond in­te­res­ting item con­cer­ned the mur­der we­apon. Not the frag­ment of Cra­ig's fin­ger­p­rint fo­und on the trig­ger rim, but the snag of be­ige cot­ton ad­he­ring to the gun bar­rel.

  I skip­ped down the re­port and con­ti­nu­ed re­ading:

  With a se­arch war­rant, Cap­ta­in Walsh exa­mi­ned the 1994 Por­s­c­he be­lon­ging to Cra­ig Mat­thews. In­c­lu­ded in the ma­te­ri­als fo­und in the car was a pla­id cot­ton shirt. Blo­od­s­ta­ins on it la­ter we­re iden­ti­fi­ed as mat­c­hing Mrs. Mat-thews's blo­od type. The shirt, which be­lon­ged to Mr. Mat­thews, was sta­ined on the left sle­eve from the wrist to the el­bow. Fi­bers of the sa­me com­po­si­ti­on as the snag of cot­ton fo­und on the re­vol­ver we­re dis­co­ve­red be­ne­ath the dri­ver's se­at. Cap­ta­in Walsh con­c­lu­ded that the sus­pect wrap­ped the we­apon in a be­ige cot­ton ar­tic­le be­fo­re fle­e­ing the cri­me sce­ne.

  I scan­ned the rest of it. Not much I didn't know. Ca­use of de­ath was a gun­s­hot wo­und in the chest, rup­tu­ring the

  aorta. Wo­unds in the che­ek and sho­ul­der wo­uld not ha­ve be­en fa­tal but con­t­ri­bu­ted to the mas­si­ve blo­od los
s. The bul­lets we­re from a.38 Smith and Wes­son re­vol­ver iden­ti­fi­ed as be­lon­ging to the sus­pect.

  I fol­ded the she­ets, put them in my pur­se. "Chi­ef, who ma­de the call to the po­li­ce re­por­ting the mur­der?"

  He le­aned back in his cha­ir. His fa­ce re­ma­ined ag­re­e­ab­le, but "dis­da­in flas­hed bri­efly in his eyes.

 

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