Scandal in Fair Haven

Home > Other > Scandal in Fair Haven > Page 10
Scandal in Fair Haven Page 10

by Carolyn G. Hart


  I ran thro­ugh the pos­si­bi­li­ti­es in my mind.

  And sho­ok my he­ad.

  Both Cra­ig and Patty Kay wo­uld ha­ve be­en splas­hed with li­qu­e­ur in the first ver­si­on.

  In the se­cond, crumbs from the ca­ke tin that didn't stick to the ce­iling wo­uld ha­ve fal­len on them.

  But the clin­c­her-to me-was the se­ri­es of skid marks Cra­ig left thro­ugh the spil­led li­qu­e­ur. They ran in a stra­ight li­ne from whe­re I sto­od, just in­si­de the hall kit­c­hen do­or, to the back do­or.

  Not a sin­g­le mark dis­tur­bed the sticky goo con­ge­aled ne­ar the co­oking sta­ti­on, the po­int whe­re the ac­ti­on sho­uld ha­ve oc­cur­red, be­ca­use that's whe­re the co­oking stuffs we­re. But the­re we­re no fo­ot­p­rints, no stre­aks, just an un­b­ro­ken she­et of dri­ed syrupy li­qu­e­ur.

  That un­dis­tur­bed re­si­due told me Patty Kay wasn't stan­ding the­re when the co­oking stuffs we­re spil­led, that the li­qu­e­ur bot­tles had be­en re­mo­ved from the co­oking is­land to a po­int ne­ar the back do­or, that the ca­ke tin was he­aved first and the tos­ser dar­ted out of the way, then the li­qu­e­ur was splas­hed aga­inst the ca­bi­nets and the bot­tles thrown-

  I lo­oked for the bot­tles (physi­cal evi­den­ce that wo­uld ha­ve be­en re­mo­ved by the po­li­ce) in the of­fi­ci­al pho­tos. One bot­tle sat on the kit­c­hen tab­le (co­ur­tesy of Cra­ig, as I re­cal­led) and the se­cond lay un­b­ro­ken on the flo­or ne­ar the co­oking is­land.

  If Cra­ig had left that se­cond bot­tle by the is­land, his fo­ot­p­rints wo­uld ne­ces­sa­rily ha­ve led away from the area.

  They didn't.

  So the se­cond bot­tle must ha­ve be­en tos­sed the­re.

  Captain Walsh might dis­co­unt my in­ter­p­re­ta­ti­on, but to me the lack of fo­ot­p­rints pro­ved wit­ho­ut a sha­dow of a do­ubt Cra­ig's in­no­cen­ce.

  Assuming, of co­ur­se, Cra­ig hadn't mo­un­ted a dan­ge­ro­us do­ub­le bluff to in­c­ri­mi­na­te him­self.

  I con­si­de­red that co­ol­ly. I didn't think he was smart eno­ugh or had the guts. But I co­uld be wrong. He might ha­ve a sur­p­ri­sing stre­ak of wi­li­ness. Or wo­uld it be so sur­p­ri­sing? Cra­ig was ob­vi­o­usly wily eno­ugh to use his un­de­ni­ab­le charm to ma­ni­pu­la­te tho­se aro­und him, es­pe­ci­al­ly wo­men. That kind of in­di­rec­t­ness wo­uld fit in per­fectly with a do­ub­le bluff. So, yes, he was wily eno­ugh. Was he gutsy eno­ugh?

  Of co­ur­se, the­re was anot­her over­po­we­ring, unar­gu­ab­le re­ason the po­li­ce ver­si­on co­uldn't be true.

  Not physi­cal evi­den­ce this ti­me, but an in­s­tinct as con­vin­cing and unal­te­rab­le as any sme­ar of blo­od or shred of cloth or frag­ment of ha­ir.

  I al­re­ady felt 1 knew Patty Kay well eno­ugh to be su­re that she ne­ver ran from any man.

  And cer­ta­inly not from Cra­ig.

  Patty Kay was a fig­h­ter.

  If she had run, re­ali­zing her pe­ril, it wo­uld ha­ve be­en to her car for a we­apon.

  No, Patty Kay hadn't run.

  She'd wal­ked out to her de­ath in the play­ho­use with so­me­one she didn't fe­ar.

  This ca­re­ful­ly ar­ran­ged sce­ne, this de­adly sna­re, was cre­ated af­ter she lay de­ad or dying in the play­ho­use.

  1 chec­ked the ti­me. I'd ta­ken two mi­nu­tes the­re. It se­emed re­aso­nab­le Cra­ig wo­uld ha­ve lo­oked at this frig­h­te­ning sce­ne at le­ast that long. So now fi­ve mi­nu­tes we­re go­ne.

  I skir­ted the ir­re­gu­lar sta­in and ope­ned the back do­or.

  Daffodils bor­de­red the path to the play­ho­use. If Cra­ig left a sticky tra­il from his skid ac­ross the kit­c­hen, I co­uldn't spot it on the dark flag­s­to­nes.

  The glass-wal­led play­ho­use had be­en bu­ilt per­pen­di­cu­lar to the ho­use, fa­cing a twen­ty-fi­ve-yard po­ol. A stand of hu­ge chin­ka­pin oaks fra­med the play­ho­use and the po­ol. To the right we­re the ga­ra­ges and the dri­ve. I gu­es­sed the bright blue Le­xus ne­ar the back do­or be­lon­ged to Patty Kay.

  I to­ok the ti­me to walk-it must ha­ve be­en a hun­d­red yar­ds-from the ho­use to cir­c­le be­hind the ga­ra­ges. I wasn't sur­p­ri­sed to find an old-fas­hi­oned al­ley the­re. Ot­her­wi­se, Cra­ig wo­uld ha­ve pas­sed the po­li­ce co­ming in­to the gro­unds as he sped away.

  An owl ho­oted.

  I had Cra­ig's keys in my poc­ket, but the play­ho­use do­or was un­loc­ked.

  Sticky sta­ins from spil­led li­qu­e­ur are one thing.

  Massive, con­ge­aled po­ols of blo­od are de­ci­dedly anot­her.

  This was be­yond the sco­pe of a cle­aning crew. The­se rugs wo­uld ha­ve to be des­t­ro­yed and rep­la­ced.

  The rank smell sic­ke­ned.

  The play­ho­use was cre­ated for sunny ti­mes, for happy days. Gol­den whi­te wo­od, glass walls, oran­ge li­nen so­fas and easy cha­irs-and whi­te shag rugs.

  Anger flic­ke­red wit­hin me.

  Until now, I'd fo­cu­sed pri­ma­rily upon Cra­ig's plight.

  Now I was se­e­ing whe­re a vib­rant wo­man had la­in in her own blo­od, dying-and not by the hand of a stran­ger.

  … a ti­me to die.

  It sho­uld not ha­ve be­en her ti­me to die.

  "I'm sorry, Patty Kay." Yes, I sa­id it alo­ud in that sunny, vi­olen­ce-mar­ked play­ro­om. Mark me a sen­ti­men­tal fo­ol, if you will, but age grants so­me de­fi­ni­te rights, and one is the wil­lin­g­ness to be open abo­ut yo­ur fe­elings. I was sad and angry be­ca­use li­fe is so fra­gi­le, so fle­eting, its loss so fi­nal.

  I lo­oked at tho­se dark sta­ins and I knew I was de­ter­mi­ned to find out the truth. Not so­lely for Cra­ig now, but for Patty Kay too.

  From the po­si­ti­on of the sta­ins, I fi­gu­red Patty Kay and her mur­de­rer we­re fa­cing each ot­her when the shots we­re fi­red. Patty Kay was clo­se to the north en­t­ran­ce. I sto­od by the west do­or that ope­ned on­to the deck. She'd stag­ge­red bac­k­ward a few steps and fal­len. The bal­lis­tics de­par­t­ment and the fo­ren­sics la­bo­ra­tory wo­uld ha­ve de­ter­mi­ned how far away her as­sa­ilant sto­od from her when he fi­red. My gu­ess was that the kil­ler gun­ned her down, then left the play­ho­use thro­ugh the west do­or.

  In the po­li­ce pho­tos, Patty Kay lay on her left si­de cur­led in the fe­tal po­si­ti­on. The do­or was wed­ged aga­inst her whe­re Cra­ig had pus­hed his way in. The sta­in on

  Craig's left sle­eve was con­sis­tent with his ha­ving knelt be­si­de her and lif­ted her he­ad.

  Actually, the fact that his shirt was sta­ined at all was anot­her com­pel­ling ar­gu­ment for his in­no­cen­ce. It had hap­pe­ned only be­ca­use he tri­ed to help her. If he had shot Patty Kay down, why wo­uld he ha­ve to­uc­hed her, go­ne ne­ar that spur­ting blo­od?

  But, as is so of­ten true in li­fe, the­re was al­ways an an­s­wer that co­uld be ma­de. The pro­se­cu­ti­on co­uld ef­fec­ti­vely ar­gue that on­ce the de­ed was do­ne, Cra­ig had re­ac­ted in hor­ror to his own let­hal act. He had knelt, they wo­uld say, in a fu­ti­le, mad at­tempt to help her. But the­re was no un­do­ing Patty Kay's de­adly inj­ury. (In that event, wo­uldn't his right sle­eve ha­ve be­en sta­ined? He wo­uld ha­ve co­me to her from the front, not the back.) The po­li­ce ra­ti­ona­le wo­uld fit in ni­cely with Cra­ig's run­ning away, which co­uld al­so be se­en as a de­mon­s­t­ra­ti­on of his chro­nic un­wil­lin­g­ness to fa­ce re­ality.

  I'm not much for glib an­s­wers.

  I felt cer­ta­in the­re was mo­re to Cra­ig's run­ning than ter­ror that he wo­uld be ac­cu­sed.

  I didn't see it as a con­fes­si­on of gu­ilt.

  But he was not an un­s
op­his­ti­ca­ted man.

  He'd told me he ran be­ca­use hus­bands are so of­ten sus­pec­ted when a wi­fe is mur­de­red.

  True.

  But he and Patty Kay we­re not on bad terms. So far as I knew.

  There had to be anot­her, stron­ger, mo­re dam­ning re­ason.

  I tri­ed to ima­gi­ne Cra­ig's tho­ughts at that mo­ment.

  The shock, of co­ur­se, wo­uld ha­ve be­en enor­mo­us. Mur­der is not a stap­le com­pa­ni­on to small-town li­fe, cer­ta­inly not this ra­re­fi­ed kind of small-town li­fe.

  So Cra­ig was stun­ned, sha­ken, over­w­hel­med.

  Then si­rens shril­led.

  He de­ci­ded to flee. To me it se­emed evi­dent his ac­ti­ons fit exactly the amo­unt of ti­me he had.

  He to­ok the gun with him.

  Where was the we­apon at that mo­ment? Cra­ig told me he'd pic­ked it up out of the grass be­fo­re he went in­to the play­ho­use and fo­und Patty Kay the­re. Had he kept it in his hand when he lif­ted her he­ad? It was pos­sib­le, if he was car­rying it in his right hand. He co­uld ha­ve tur­ned back to the open do­or, hol­ding the gun, when he he­ard the si­rens.

  Actually, he co­uld ha­ve run, not even re­ali­zing he had the gun in his hand-

  No, no, no. He'd wrap­ped the gun in so­met­hing.

  That bot­he­red me. Why? And with what? And whe­re was it?

  It mat­te­red. It had to mat­ter, be­ca­use Cra­ig was in the big­gest tro­ub­le of his li­fe, and he wo­uldn't an­s­wer that sim­p­le qu­es­ti­on. Or what se­emed to me to be a sim­p­le qu­es­ti­on.

  Why wrap the gun, dam­mit?

  Because he wan­ted to cle­an off his fin­ger­p­rints?

  Maybe.

  What did he wrap it in?

  Captain Walsh sa­id they hadn't fo­und an­y­t­hing to match the snag of cloth on the pis­tol.

  Cloth. Be­ige cot­ton.

  I lo­oked aro­und. Web­bed plas­tic bins sat on eit­her si­de of this exit. One held a tall stack of vi­vidly hu­ed to­wels, oran­ge and gre­en and ras­p­ber­ry, pur­p­le, red, and navy. The ot­her held so­iled to­wels.

  If Cra­ig wan­ted to wrap the gun, hi­de it from vi­ew, wi­pe it cle­an, he had an am­p­le supply of to­wels right at hand.

  But the cot­ton snag was be­ige.

  Not a Patty Kay co­lor.

  Beige cot­ton.

  It didn't ta­ke long for me to sa­tisfy myself. The­re wasn't a sin­g­le pi­ece of be­ige cot­ton of any sort in the play­ho­use.

  Okay. Cra­ig was stan­ding the­re in a des­pe­ra­te pa­nic, lis­te­ning to the si­rens co­me clo­ser and clo­ser. I'd think he'd run to his car, gun in hand, fran­tic to es­ca­pe.

  Why wo­uld he even start to think abo­ut wrap­ping the gun in an­y­t­hing at that mo­ment?

  I didn't think he wo­uld.

  So how to ac­co­unt for the snag of ma­te­ri­al on the we­apon? And it de­fi­ni­tely was wrap­ped in so­met­hing when the two boys spot­ted Cra­ig get­ting out of his car on the co­untry ro­ad.

  Maybe the an­s­wer was su­per sim­p­le. May­be the­re was so­met­hing in Cra­ig's car that he wrap­ped the gun in.

  No. If it we­re that easy, he'd ha­ve had no re­ason to get rid of the ma­te­ri­al. And the po­li­ce hadn't fo­und it in the car or in the area with the gun tho­ugh the­re we­re mat­c­hing fi­bers be­ne­ath the dri­ver's se­at.

  So Cra­ig had hid­den it so­mew­he­re bet­we­en that co­untry ro­ad and his ar­ri­val at the ca­bin.

  There had to be a re­ason.

  I re­cal­led our talk at the ja­il.

  Craig re­fu­sed to an­s­wer when I as­ked why he'd got­ten rid of the sun and what he'd wrap­ped it in.

  And when I as­ked who might ha­ve re­ason to kill Patty Kay, I'd swe­ar the­re'd be­en a flash of un­cer­ta­in­ty-and fe­ar -in his eyes be­fo­re he cri­ed out that it was "… crazy. No­body'd want to kill her."

  But what if the­re we­re so­me­one he fe­ared might ha­ve do­ne it-be­ca­use of so­met­hing he fo­und in the play­ho­use

  by his wi­fe's body? So­met­hing ma­de of be­ige cot­ton, so­met­hing he re­cog­ni­zed.

  That ma­de sen­se. Cra­ig wo­uld sco­op up that ar­tic­le along with the gun and the­re wo­uld be a re­ason to run, the fran­tic, ter­rib­le ne­ces­sity to get the dam­ning cloth out of the­re, away from the po­li­ce.

  I left the play­ho­use. Back in the ma­in hal­lway, I fo­und the te­lep­ho­ne di­rec­tory. Aga­in I di­aled the po­li­ce sta­ti­on.

  I had to wa­it only a mo­ment.

  "Walsh he­re."

  "Captain Walsh, this is Mrs. Col­lins."

  "Yes, ma'am." If they ga­ve awards for lack of in­f­lec­ti­on, he'd be a cinch to win. "Glad you cal­led. I tal­ked to Mr. Mat­thews. Ac­cor­ding to him, the ho­use was loc­ked tig­h­ter than a drum when he left it Sun­day." Unin­f­lec­ted, yes, but puf­fed with smug­ness.

  I lo­ve to def­la­te smug­ness. "A te­ena­ge ne­ig­h­bor, Dan For­rest, fo­und that back do­or un­loc­ked ear­li­er this af­ter­no­on. I'm su­re you'll want to talk to him. The boy may ha­ve he­ard the in­t­ru­der."

  Walsh ag­re­ed. Grud­gingly.

  "Captain, you sa­id the­re we­re fi­bers in Cra­ig's Por­s­c­he of the be­ige ma­te­ri­al snag­ged on the mur­der we­apon."

  "That's cor­rect."

  "If I we­re you, Cap­ta­in, I'd re­qu­est the help of the hig­h­way pat­rol and the co­unty of­fi­cers in a se­arch of ro­ad­si­de trash cans bet­we­en Snell and Mon­te­ag­le. Ob­vi­o­usly, they sho­uld lo­ok for so­met­hing ma­de of be­ige cot­ton. It will be blo­od­s­ta­ined."

  The pho­ne rang as I rin­sed out the mop one last ti­me.

  The kit­c­hen spar­k­led. My back ac­hed. And I was ra­ve­no­us. I'd al­re­ady chec­ked out the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor and fre­ezer. The­re was plenty of fo­od. Patty Kay not only enj­oyed co­oking, she was an or­derly and sa­ving ho­me­ma­ker. I'd pic­ked out my sup­per, a fro­zen pac­ka­ge of ho­me­ma­de be­ef Stro­ga­noff, ne­atly la­be­led in her lo­oping crim­son script and re­ady for the mic­ro­wa­ve. I didn't re­ach for the re­ce­iver with any gre­at ex­pec­ta­ti­ons, but I've le­ar­ned that you can't pre­dict who may call or whe­re the call may le­ad. In my ye­ars of re­por­ting, I'd cir­c­led the world twi­ce, vi­si­ting every con­ti­nent, and many of tho­se jo­ur­neys grew out of a te­lep­ho­ne sum­mons. Right now I was stan­ding in the kit­c­hen of a mur­de­red wo­man. So I got it on the se­cond pe­al. I didn't even ha­ve ti­me to say hel­lo. "Cra­ig, Cra­ig?" The now-fa­mi­li­ar yo­ung vo­ice trem­b­led with eager­ness. It was as­to­nis­hing how much emo­ti­on she'd

  packed in­to sa­ying his na­me. I was glad Cap­ta­in Walsh wasn't on the li­ne to he­ar it.

  "No. This is Hen­ri­et­ta Col­lins."

  "Who are yo­uT It was the di­rect, un­var­nis­hed qu­es­ti­on of a mind ob­ses­sed with its own qu­est.

  "His aunt."

  "Oh. The aunt he went to see af­ter he fo­und Mot­her?"

  "Yes." So this was Bri­git. I he­ard no ref­lec­ti­on of Patty Kay's husky, dis­tin­c­ti­ve vo­ice in her da­ug­h­ter's.

  "Oh." Bri­git ac­cep­ted it wit­ho­ut qu­es­ti­on, al­most wit­ho­ut in­te­rest. "Is Cra­ig the­re? Is he ho­me?"

  "No. Not yet."

  "I can't be­li­eve they've put him in ja­il. And Daddy won't let me talk to the po­li­ce. I co­uld tell them. I know him bet­ter than an­y­body, bet­ter than Mot­her even. Cra­ig wo­uldn't hurt an­y­body. Ever." She cho­ked off in sobs.

  "Brigit, do you want to help Cra­ig get out of ja­il?" I will ad­mit I felt a qu­alm. Ta­king ad­van­ta­ge of chil­d­ren has not be­en a cus­to­mary ploy of mi­ne.

  There was no he­si­ta­ti­on. "Oh, yes,
yes, yes."

  "Could I see you to­night? Or so­me­ti­me to­mor­row? I ne­ed to know mo­re abo­ut yo­ur mot­her and who might ha­ve be­en angry with her."

  "I can tell you a lot." The switch from te­ars to ve­nom was star­t­ling. "I can…" Ab­ruptly the so­und was muf­fled, but I co­uld he­ar so­me of what she sa­id. "… Pa­ulie… she's got my copy of the play… ho­me early, I pro­mi­se."

 

‹ Prev