The detective chose not to respond. He just quietly went about rolling each of Iris’s fingers on the inkpad and then on a card. When the process was completed, he scooted his chair back a little and asked, “Ms. Clampton, are you struggling financially?”
“What? Why?” she insisted, now appearing confused.
“Just answer the question, please.”
“Well, sure, isn’t most everyone?” she asked, more to make a point than to solicit a response. “It’s a tough economy and I do have three boys to support.” She avoided making eye contact.
He looked intently at her. “Did you take the money from the Forster house yesterday?”
She met his gaze with fire in her eyes. Clenching her teeth, she said, “No! Why would I do that?”
Sledge smirked. “I don’t know, maybe you needed the money.”
She stared hard at him, her jaw set. “I work two jobs and I work hard. I don’t live beyond my means—never have.” She paused. “And I am not a thief!”
She stood and walked over to the front window, not so much to look out, as to collect herself. She quickly spun around to face the detective. “I really resent being questioned like this. You’re making it personal and I don’t think you have any justification for doing that.”
Sledge studied Iris for a few seconds. He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t dress like a waitress who cleans offices at night.”
She glanced down at her designer jeans, lime-green body-hugging knit top and matching green high-heeled sandals. She twisted the cuff of bracelets around one wrist. “As if it’s any of your business,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his. “I know how to shop.” She glared at him. “I buy rich women’s cast-offs—you know, secondhand clothes from thrift stores and consignment shops.” She hesitated before saying, “I like getting dressed up. Is there a crime against that?” She looked at her watch and said, “Actually, I have an appointment in a few minutes, so if you don’t mind…”
“Tell me this, Ms. Clampton,” he said, ignoring her, “have you ever embezzled money from an organization or company—PTA, Pop Warner Football or…” he paused before saying, “a youth baseball program?”
Iris sank down into the closest chair, crossed her arms and pressed her body against the caned back.
“Well, Ms. Clampton?”
After several seconds, she dropped her arms and leaned slightly forward. “Okay, that wasn’t me,” she said. “You’ve gotta believe me.”
“The charges were false? The investigation faulty?”
“Actually, yes.” She tightened her lips in a grimace before saying, “I was told that my way of handling my son would come back to bite me.” She forced a laugh. “Heaven knows it’s like a flea or mosquito constantly nibbling at me. But now—this is more like a wasp swarm or a bear attack.”
Sledge furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about, Ms. Clampton? I’m not following you.”
“Metaphors,” she said looking down at her hands in her lap. “Just metaphors.”
“Can you answer the question?” he asked without emotion.
She straightened her posture. “Yes, I took the fall for the missing money. But I didn’t take it.” She stared off into space as if reliving another time in another place. “I thought my son was going to straighten up. He got a job…quit hanging out with riff raff…” She shot a glance over at Sledge. “He promised me he would stay off drugs.” As if apologizing, she said, “What can I say? I’m a mother; I believed him. Rather than see him go to jail at a time when he truly seemed to be on the right track, I accepted the blame. I took on extra work and paid it back.”
“And did he keep his promise to you?”
She let her shoulders slump as she rested her arms in her lap. “Humph! I think you know the answer to that, Detective. His life is out of control and he makes it awfully difficult for the younger boys and me. It’s miserable when he’s here, and when he’s gone, I worry. There’s no peace, if you know what I mean.”
The detective’s crusty demeanor seemed to give way, momentarily, to something resembling compassion. “I’m sorry, Ms. Clampton. I really am.”
Iris sat straight in her chair. She quickly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “What do you want, Brett?” she asked when she saw him enter the room.
“Gatorade.” He glanced from Iris to Sledge and said in his defense, “What? I’m thirsty.”
“Okay, son. It’s okay. There are some crackers in the cupboard if you’re hungry. Dinner will be late tonight.”
The couple watched as the boy returned from the kitchen carrying his beverage and snack. He looked over at Iris before disappearing down the hallway.
Iris took a ragged breath. “No one knows what it’s like—not really.” She studied the detective’s face. Lashing out at him, she said, “You can be sorry all you want, but you have no idea what kind of life we live—the constant fear and chaos…” She stood, and started to pace.
“Actually, I do,” Sledge said almost inaudibly.
Iris stopped and looked over at the detective. She waited. She’d never allowed herself to look at him for so long. She couldn’t make eye contact, lest he somehow see or sense her thoughts—her fear—her secret. He’s really rather nice-looking, she thought. Hell, that’s a complication I don’t need in my life right now—I’m shoving that thought right out of my head.
Finally he began to speak. It was as if she weren’t there. “I had a son who was caught up in the drug scene. He stole, he manipulated everyone who trusted him until there was no more trust. He drove a wedge between my wife and me so deep that it couldn’t be repaired.” He looked up at Iris; sat straight in the chair. Directing his attention toward her, now, he said, “Yes, Ms. Clampton, I know what you’re going through and I must tell you that you have to take your life back.” Speaking in monotone now, he said, “You can’t let him take your life from you. His drug habit will destroy you and those two other boys. You’ve got to stop that from happening.”
Iris swallowed hard, and asked quietly, “Is that what you did, Detective?”
He frowned, blinked, and focused his eyes on the pencil in his hand for a moment before saying, “Well, my boy was killed in a drug deal.” He looked up at Iris. “Shot dead at the age of twenty-four.”
“I’m so sorry,” Iris said quietly, lowering herself into a chair.
The detective took in a deep breath. “So am I, Ms. Clampton. So am I.” He stood, picked up the fingerprinting kit and said, “That’s all for today. Try to get your son to come in and see me, will you?”
“Sure.” She watched him turn toward the front door. She followed him and asked, “Um, have you talked to others? I mean…from the fundraiser?”
“Yes, a few,” he said twisting around in place. “You had quite a turnout didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Iris responded with a brief smile. “It was a successful event, until…well, you know. I guess we had around eighty people. You’ll be busy with your questions.”
“Guess I will.” He reached for the doorknob, looked back at Iris once and walked out the door.
Still a little shaken by having visited the memories he usually kept below the surface, Craig Sledge headed back to the office. Gonzales had taken the prints they lifted from the ladder to the lab. If they match, the results of her hair sample should clinch the case, he thought. Won’t bother me if I get this one tied up in a neat little ribbon this week. Then I might head for my cabin for some serious fishing. It’s been much too long since I’ve taken a break. I’ve worked myself into the ground since Matthew’s death. Sledge shook his head. Don’t wanna think about that. Too much work to do. Can’t let myself get distracted. He smiled. …either by thoughts of Matthew or the fascinating and fiery Iris Clampton.
***
“Damon, where the hell have you been?” Iris screamed as soon as she saw her son come through the front door.
“What does it matter?” he shouted. “I’m here now, a
in’t I? What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is, the detective was here to talk to you.”
Damon feigned remorse. “Oh, I must have forgotten about that. Maybe I’ll go see him tomorrow.” He turned and headed down the hall toward his bedroom.
“You’d better, Damon. I’m telling you…” she called after him.
Bang! The bedroom door slammed shut. Iris flinched as the sound reverberated against her raw nerves.
***
Monday was business as usual at the veterinary clinic. It was near closing time when Savannah poked her head into the recovery room where her fiancé was tending to a cat. “Michael I’m leaving now,” she said. When she had his attention, she reminded him, “The detective is coming over this afternoon to look at the mound of dirt Rags found yesterday.”
“Oh that’s right. It’ll be interesting to see what he thinks.”
“It will, indeed.” She started to leave, but turned back. “Oh Michael, can we have dinner at my house tonight? I’m worried about Rags. He just hasn’t been the same since Saturday. He’s jumpy and seems kind of shaken up. I don’t want to leave him tonight.”
“Gosh, he seemed fine when you had him outside yesterday.”
“Yes, but he isn’t himself in the house. With the cleaning company coming in today, I’m sure he’s even more upset.”
“Oh, that’s right, the cleaning company… Helena was there to let them in?”
“Yes, and to make sure Rags stayed out of the way. So dinner at my house? Okay?”
“Sure, honey. Shall I pick something up?”
“No, I can make us a taco salad. Sound good?” she asked.
“Yes, perfect. See you later. I want to stop by and take a look at the mare and the little miracle.”
“Is that her name? Miracle. I like it. I took Charlotte out to see the mare one day and she wants to name her, Hope. What do you think?”
“Well, it’s not like these are our horses, but, sure, I can suggest that to Bobbi over at the shelter. And we’ll have to run it by the woman who’s interested in adopting them. In fact, I saw her at the corral this morning. I’m pretty sure she’s going to take them.”
“Way cool. I’ll see you at home,” Savannah said as she left the room.
***
Savannah had been home for only a few minutes when she heard a knock. “Oh hello, Detective,” she said upon opening the door.
“Thank you for calling, Ms. Jordan. Now what did you find?”
“Well, it wasn’t actually me; it was my cat.”
He raised his eyebrows and gave her a sideways glance. “Your cat found something?”
She motioned to her right. “Yes, come on out here, I’ll show you.” She explained as the two of them walked around the side of the house, “I let him out for some exercise yesterday and he found this.” She squatted down and pointed under the azalea bush.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Well, it appears that someone has been digging here—in fact…” She bent down and took a closer look. “…someone or something...” She paused, tilted her head to one side. “It looks different than it did yesterday.”
The detective stood rubbing his chin, looking from Savannah to where she was pointing. “I don’t see the significance…” he started to say when Antonio walked up.
“Hello señorita.”
“Oh, hola Antonio. Oh my goodness, Antonio, what happened to you?” she asked upon noticing a cut across the gardener’s nose. “Wrestling with rose bushes, again?”
He lowered his head and his shoulders slumped. “No señorita,” he said shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Bad man push me.”
Savannah put her hand on his arm. She leaned down and looked into his face. “What bad man?” she asked quietly.
Sledge swung around and took a look at the slight Mexican man. “Did that happen here?”
“Si, señor. I stay away from here.” He motioned around the area cordoned off by police tape. “I work in garden and hear something. So I walk over to here.” He indicated the area outside the perimeter of the tape. “I see man digging. Don’t look like sheriff, so I say, ‘Hey, what you doing?’ The man look at me through the bushes. I come closer and he runs out to me. I turn. Don’t want to be hit in face. He push me hard. I can no help it, I fall on my pala—er… shovel. I bleed and bleed.”
“What did he look like, Antonio?” Sledge asked.
“Anglo, I think. He wears black…how you say…?” He covered his head with his hands.
“Hood?” Savannah suggested.
“Yes, hood. Black hood.”
“What happened after he pushed you?” Sledge asked.
“I think he run away.”
“Did he take anything with him?” the detective wanted to know.
“I think no. I do not see a thing.”
“Antonio, can we borrow your shovel—pala?” Sledge asked.
“Si señor.” He rushed toward the garden and came back with a shovel.
Sledge took it and immediately began poking it into the ground in the area of the loosened dirt.
Ka-thud.
“Did you hear that? There’s something buried here. Let’s see what it is,” Sledge said as he began to dig carefully around the object.
“What is that?” Savannah asked as the item came into view.
“Heck if I know,” Sledge said. He wiped the dirt away with a white handkerchief he’d retrieved from his jacket pocket. “Do you recognize it Ms. Jordan?”
Savannah moved in for a closer look. She pursed her lips and frowned.
Sledge donned a pair of latex surgical gloves and lifted the item out of the shallow hole, removing a stained white towel from around it.
“Oh!” Savannah exclaimed. “It’s one of Auntie’s inkwells. She has a collection of these in her bedroom.” She then scrunched up her nose. “What’s it doing out here?”
Sledge examined it more closely. “Well, this one’s got blood on it. Looks like our murder weapon.”
“Ay me!” Antonio said, slapping his palms against his cheeks.
The detective pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket, unfolded it and dropped the towel into it. Then he draped his handkerchief over the inkwell. “Ms. Jordan, can you show me where this was in the room, please?”
“Yes, I think I can.”
Before picking up the inkwell, he looked out toward the grassy area and then up at the second-story window. He said, “You know, I’d like to check one more thing, if you don’t mind.” He placed the envelope on the ground next to the inkwell, then lifted the ladder and leaned it against the house. After securing it, he began to make the climb up to the second story—stopping every few feet to look over at the grassy area. On his way back down the ladder, he felt the branches from one of the junipers rubbing against the back of his neck and he stopped to investigate. Hmm, more red hair. He picked the strands of hair from the branches and deposited them in a small envelope which he slipped back into his pocket before descending the ladder.
Antonio helped Sledge ease the ladder back down to the ground. Then, using the handkerchief, Sledge carefully picked up the inkwell with one hand and grabbed the evidence envelope with the other. “Okay, Ms. Jordan, I think I have what I need here. I’d like to take a look at your aunt’s collection, if I may.”
“Sure,” Savannah said. She reached over and patted the gardener’s arm. “You take care, Antonio. Thank you for telling us about what happened.”
“Yes, thank you, sir.” Sledge nodded in his direction.
Savannah led the detective into the house, up the staircase and toward her aunt’s former bedroom. She stopped outside the doorway until the detective said, “Looks like the cleaning service has been here.”
“Oh yes. That’s right, they were.” She relaxed a little and walked on in. She stood in the middle of the room and looked around.
“They do a darn good job, don’t they?” the detective said. “You’d never know… well,
everything should be back the way it was. Maybe even better.” He chuckled.
“Yes, physically, it looks okay. I think it will take time for the emotional aspect to heal.” Savannah straightened her posture and walked over to the glass cabinet where her aunt’s inkwells were displayed. “Hmmm, I don’t see any missing from here.” She opened the cabinet door and looked more closely. “They all seem to be accounted for.” She turned just in time to see her aunt’s long-time housekeeper appear at the bedroom door. “Oh Helena, thank you for taking care of things today. The cleaning service did a good job, don’t you think?” She took a sweeping look around the room.
“Yes. They worked hard—lots of noise.” She shook her head and continued, “The cat was not happy.”
“Oh, poor guy. I really appreciate you being here with him.” Savannah started to turn back to the cabinet, but changed her mind. Helena, do you know where my aunt had this inkwell? I can’t find a spot for it in the cabinet.” She indicated that Detective Sledge should show the housekeeper the one they had found outside.
Helena walked closer and took a look. “Oh yes, it does not go inside the cabinet. It was right here.” She pointed to an empty spot on the dressing table. “I saw it was not there today,” she said. She put her hands out in front of her and shrugged her shoulders. “I wondered where did it go?” She addressed Savannah. “Where was it?”
“It’s a long and complicated story, Helena. I’ll tell you when it’s all figured out. Thank you again for being here today. I left your check on the table downstairs.”
Helena stood in place, her round friendly face filled with curiosity, her dark brown eyes probing for answers. When no one offered an explanation, she glanced one more time at Savannah, then turned quickly and left the room.
“So, the murder weapon was in plain sight—easily accessible for a crime of passion,” Detective Sledge said as if he were having a conversation with himself. He then looked over at Savannah. “It’ll be interesting, indeed, to find out whose fingerprints are on this.” He started to take a step toward the bedroom door, stopped and said, “Okay, then. Ms. Jordan, I’ll get out of your way. Thanks for calling about this. Turns out your cat led us to a very important clue. Now if only he could tell us who the murderer is.” He laughed out loud.
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