The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3)

by Linda L. Dunlap

  Alice was busy behind the computer, sending and receiving messages. She looked up with a smile when she saw Maude enter the room. As it happened, the inquiry on Marlin Thompson returned a picture of a young man in prison orange, his face bearded and head shaved, a far cry from the handsome clean-cut man shot down in the pawnshop. The name Marlin Thompson was an alias—his real name was Ronald Marshall from Detroit, Michigan. Marshall, a.k.a. Thompson, was part of an activist group in Michigan that protested against several factions. During a demonstration four years earlier, Marshall accidentally or intentionally (depending upon who was testifying about the incident) slammed a cop with a protest sign. The cop lost his right eye when the pointed stick on the sign rammed his face. Marshall was charged with felony assault, with injury, and spent three years in a Michigan prison. Married at the time, and living in Bradley, Wisconsin, Marshall soon found himself divorced and deserted. After his release from prison, he took the name of Marlin Thompson and returned home to Texas, legitimizing his freedom and ability to work with phony identification papers.

  Maude thanked Alice for the information then went into the computer room to see a geek named Harold, who worked for IT. Maude had done him a favor once by visiting his mother, a widow being hassled by a con man. The mother didn’t know what to do about, or how to get rid of, the ex-boyfriend who had already taken her for a long, expensive ride. After a brief, no-nonsense conversation with the con artist, Maude convinced him it was in his best interest to give the woman’s money back, and disappear from the area, or be prepared for a short ride to the police station. She wasn’t bluffing, and he knew it. Harold had been grateful ever since.

  She approached the young man and shook his hand before asking for help.

  “Harold, how you doing?”

  “I’m okay, Miss Rogers; that is, Detective Rogers. Can I help you with something?”

  “Yeah, I need some intel on a woman named Anna Avery, DOB 12-28-1984.” She gave him all the details, including the possible connection in Detroit. “Find out about divorce records under the name Marshall. I’ll be in the office. Tell your mother hello.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will. She’ll be happy to know you mentioned her.”

  She took a trip by the ladies room and stared at herself in the mirror during hand-washing. It was time for a new box color for her hair; the last one had begun fading, and her natural color was growing in. Rat-gray was her best description when someone asked what was under the box, a mixture of natural dark blonde and gray from aging. Not a pretty sight, in her opinion. Lilly Ann had suggested lightly that Maude should take a trip to a salon and spend some money on her hair. Looking in the mirror, those words came back, and she thought about them. “Hell, why not?” she said. “Looks bad enough it got me to cussing.”

  Before she left the Cop Shop, Harold dropped off some paperwork, the contents though not surprising, were part of the paper trail of loose ends needed to make a case.

  Along the road toward her house there was a salon where once in a while she stopped in for a haircut. They took walk-ins, so she thought she’d chance it. Patterson was in his office when she called to tell him she was leaving early.

  “Going to the salon. Just so you know where I’ll be.”

  “Going where?” Patterson asked, choking on a cookie his wife had baked. “I thought I heard you say you were going to the salon.”

  “Yeah, you heard right,” she said. “I’m leaving a little early. Comp time.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said quickly. “You go right ahead.” He could hardly wait to mention to the rest of the guys that Maude Rogers was going to a salon. My Lord, he thought, stranger things have probably happened, but I swear I haven’t heard of them.

  “What? You don’t think I go to beauty salons?” she grumbled.

  “Oh, sure, sure. Of course you do. Go right ahead. See you Wednesday.” Patterson was afraid to break the spell. Maude was acting almost like a woman instead of a cop.

  Joe was still jawing with the guys because the afternoon had been slow. No crimes reported. They’d probably wait till night, as they usually did.

  “Joe, leaving early. Be ready by six for Waco.”

  “Okay, partner,” he said. “Going home?”

  “No, some personal business.” She didn’t like everybody knowing her movements.

  “Anything I can do to help?” he asked, back to being his old self.

  “No, see you in the morning. Early. Night, Joe. Night, guys.” She began walking to her car just as James Patterson entered the room where the men were gathered. She heard the word “salon” said a few times and shook her head at the foolishness of men.

  The young woman with hair standing up like a row of paintbrushes wet with orange paint asked if she could help. Maude looked at her doubtfully and said she didn’t think so. Another older, more conservative woman appeared quickly and proceeded to seat Maude while they talked. After explaining what she didn’t want—no orange or any other hair color not God-given—the final product she received was a blunt cut with streaks of golden blonde throughout the rest, blending the colors together. Definitely pleased with the result, Maude smiled, paid the woman, and left a generous tip. On her way out the door, she felt considerably more attractive than when she had arrived.

  She couldn’t stop looking; the mirror drew her eyes to the reflection of the woman with nice hair. Silently thanking Lilly Ann for the advice, Maude arrived home, hoping there were no more ghoulish pranks in store. She couldn’t put the activity of the jackhammer in any other category, even though there had been no intention of humor by the mastermind that planned it. The house was quiet, with nothing amiss.

  “Good,” she said to the walls. “I am not in the mood for intrigue.” Hunger was first on her agenda. She had learned the HALT acronym. Hungry, angry, lonely, and tired. All were occasions when people broke their sobriety. Crap, she thought, I have them all, most of the time. Maybe not the hungry one, but certainly the others.

  Her dinner was earlier than usual because of the early bedtime she’d planned. A frozen dinner from Boston Market offered a good, tasty meal for a decent price. Cleanup was minimal, and the last cigarette of the day quickly followed the third. Her nicotine intake being doubled left a satisfied feeling. She went to bed sleepy but took one of the pills as backup. Avoiding the tossing and turning of a restless night was premium on her wish-list. Regardless of all the preparation to avoid sleeplessness, Maude stayed awake for a long time. Visions of Anna Avery with a machete in hand ran across her consciousness. Finally she slept in a quiet house.

  Rising early before the sun showed itself, Maude examined her breasts for lumps, as she tried to do every Tuesday while showering. After assuring herself that nothing new had grown in a week, she dressed and attended to the new hairstyle as the woman at the salon had shown her. She was amazed at the way a few added blonde streaks improved her looks. “Being old doesn’t have to mean being a dragged-down, washed-out harpy.” That was what the stylist had said. A white shirt, her gold cross, and the brown blazer with gold flecks brought out the new color, and she liked the look. After choosing a pair of sharply creased brown slacks and dark brown Tony Lamas to finish the look, Maude touched lipstick to her mouth, poured the rest of her coffee into a travel mug, and looked for the paperwork from Harold. It was all there. She eased herself into the city car and began the drive to Joe’s apartment. Joe took over the wheel when she arrived, then pulled into Taco Cabana’s drive-through to order food to go. The restaurant was a favorite. Afterward, it was on the road to Waco, three hours away.

  “What do you mean, he came by and asked questions?” Wallace Avery asked of his wife. “Why are they interested in you?”

  She lay upon the chaise as early morning sunlight filtered through the border of trees on the east side of the house and sent its rays through the thin window screens. Rising early was a pleasure for Anna; she liked the feel of air freshly cleaned by night’s coolness. Her life was orderly,
with no room for clutter or anything soiled. Thinking of just how much of her time was spent in the open breezeway of the house brought a smile to her full lips. What Wallace didn’t know made everything simpler. Remembering the last time she had a visitor lying upon the same chintz-covered lounge made her smile broaden into a laugh of delight. Let’s see, that was five, no, seven days ago, she thought.

  “What’s funny?” Wallace asked, curious at her outburst.

  “Oh, the silly questions the detective had for me, they were really quite comical at times. A mix-up. That old lady detective thought I said I worked at the shop with you, and she sent her good-looking young helper to find out what days I was there. He wanted to know if I was working the day your helper was killed.”

  “How good looking is he?” Her husband was reading the newspaper and glanced her way.

  “Quite handsome,” she said, “dark hair and green eyes. No more, please; the subject is tiresome.”

  “If you say so,” Wallace remarked, returning to his paper. “Perhaps I should have a word with their supervisor. If they annoy you again, I will definitely put a stop to it.”

  “Thank you, darling,” she said, the smile now hidden. Remembering Ronald’s excited groans and grunts stirred her body’s response. He had been a passionate lover. “I’m going to miss him,” she whispered to herself.

  “Say something, love?” Wallace asked.

  “No, nothing. Just enjoying the lovely morning.” Anna closed her eyes and slept, her breath a purr of contentment.

  Chapter 13

  Maude reconsidered the relationship between the deceased Marlin Thompson and Ann Avery, looking for angles. She thought about bouncing a few facts and suppositions off Joe after he had slept, wondering if he was still convinced the young woman was hiding something.

  “Joe, about this woman, how do you think she figures into the murder?”

  He took more than a minute thinking then offered up, “Can’t say yet. Maybe jealousy or revenge. He might have been coming on to her.”

  “She’s a pretty young woman; no doubt any man would be attracted to her.” She glanced away at some construction on the highway. “There is a possibility she knew him before. Maybe he threatened to tell on her.”

  “Possible,” Joe said, thinking. “When did he get out of prison?”

  “Let’s see,” she said, looking in her book. “Records show he was released in January of this year.”

  “So…eight months or so.” Joe nodded. “If he went to work at the pawnshop four months ago, wonder where he spent the first four months after he got out?”

  “Maybe in Waco, where he was released for good behavior. His parents live south of there.” Maude thought about that for a minute.

  “A retirement home for old people?” Joe asked. “That what we’re doing, scouting out your next residence?” He got a stare for his trouble, just enough to keep the smirk planted on his lips.

  “Yeah, and no. I’m going to retire and move in with the last partner I work with,” she said. “Anyway, the parents aren’t that old.”

  Joe chuckled. He liked getting a rise out of Maude. “Seriously, aren’t we looking at Anna today?”

  “Well, you see, that’s the thing. Her last known relative lives near Waco also. A little too coincidental, don’t you think?”

  Joe cocked his head and nodded. “A little too.”

  “Marlin Thompson, a.k.a. Ronald Marshall, was married before he went to prison. His wife divorced him. Anna Avery used to be Anna Marshall. That’s how an ex-con got the job in a pawnshop: she forged his papers and convinced her husband to hire him.”

  “Why didn’t we just ask Avery about hiring Thompson?”

  “I did,” Maude countered. “He told me an employment agency sent Thompson over. Said he had good references, passed the examination, and got his license.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he lie about that? Unless Anna set it all up just so her ex found work near her. Still, that doesn’t wash either. She’s not the kind of woman who wants last year’s model unless there’s a good reason.”

  “A darn good reason,” Maude agreed. “I suspect she lives by the saying keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  “Where to first?” Joe asked, passing the city limit sign for Hewitt, Texas, population 1,351. The town was small, good for lying low for four months.

  “The address for the parents is 330 Rural Route 3, a little north of Hewitt. I guess it isn’t a retirement center. Let’s hope we can get some answers to our questions.”

  As always when entering a city on police business, Maude made contact with law enforcement agencies. It was good politics to meet and greet the people you might need to depend upon. The dispatcher was the only one on duty at the station. She said everybody else was out, but she could radio the chief. The town was progressive, with two Starbucks near the freeway. Chief Tom Bradley agreed to meet them at the one nearest the station. They arrived first and waited, sipping the hot, strong coffee at a table. The barista behind the counter had smiled and worked quickly, eying Joe all the while.

  Chief Bradley was a graying man in his forties, lean as a pencil, and sharp too. He acknowledged their presence in town, and directed them toward the Marshalls’ address. Said they had lived there for a few years and he remembered when their boy went to prison over the incident.

  “The folks insist it was an accident, but the young man was found guilty of assault.” Bradley seemed sad about the murder, but it wasn’t news to him; he’d been the one who told the parents about it.

  “Chief, did you know Ronald Marshall’s wife?” Maude asked, admiring the taste of the brew before her. It reminded her of those little cups that came in boxes.

  “No, I never met her, but I understand she dropped him flat when he went to prison. The Marshalls were somewhat bitter against her for a while.”

  “They changed their minds?” Joe asked.

  “Well, after Ronald got out, he came here and stayed, then next thing you know, he was gone. They said he got a job in Madison, said she helped him. Damndest thing. Just about the time things worked out, and those folks got on with their lives, somebody killed their son. That’s just too wrong. I hope you catch whoever it was.”

  “Thank you, chief. We hope so too. We’d better get on over and see them before it gets any later. Should we call first?” she asked.

  “Probably not necessary. They’re home folks. Reason I know them well, they’re friends of my sister. We’ve come in contact a few times.”

  Goodbyes said and coffee finished, the detectives headed northeast, toward Route Three. The road’s name had been changed to Mercer Street by emergency services, but most people, according to Chief Bradley, still called it Route Three. Two miles down the narrow pavement, they drove into the yard of 330. A red pickup was in the carport of the small orange brick house, and in front of it, protected by the overhang, sat a Mustang of sixties vintage. Joe slavered over the dark green paint job, wishing he could see inside the car.

  “Can I help you folks?” The polite voice came from behind the screened door. Maude had no doubt a double-barrel shotgun stood near the speaker. She would expect it from a man whose son had been recently murdered.

  Joe nodded at Maude and she stepped forward, taking the lead with the older man.

  “I’m Maude Rogers, Mr. Marshall, and this is my partner Joe Allen. We’re homicide detectives from Madison. We’ve come this distance to speak to you about your son.”

  “My son is dead, detective. I don’t know what I can do to help.”

  “We know, sir. I’m sorry for your loss. May we come in?” She was filled with sympathy for the man, but dreaded meeting his wife. Jeez, I hate talking to mothers about their dead sons. Something about that connection makes it harder for women. Maude’s memory tried to pull her from the present, but she held on, refusing to backtrack to the time she’d lost her own son, before he could be born.

  “Yes, come in, detectives, par
don my manners. Elizabeth would scold me for keeping a lady outside on the steps.”

  Maude immediately liked the gentlemanly charm of Edwin Marshall. Two padded straight-back chairs sat in a half-circle, along with a recliner and small wicker love seat. A gray-haired woman with stooped shoulders sat there, her small frame taking only a small section of the love seat. She was staring straight ahead at the television screen, where Lucille Ball, in black and white, played to canned laughter. Maude spoke to the woman politely, but received no indication she was heard.

  “Elizabeth isn’t here most of the time since our boy died. Doctor says, ‘Be patient, emotional wounds take time to heal.’” Edwin seemed sad, resigned to loss. “What would you like to know, detectives?”

  Joe began: “Mr. Marshall, We understand your son stayed with you after he was released from custody. Did he seem frightened, as if he was hiding from anyone who wanted to harm him?”

  The man seemed grateful for the opportunity to talk. “Yes, he was here for a while. Ronald, or Ronny, as we always called him, was a good boy growing up. He liked fixing things, even when he was little. Break his toys; he’d have them torn apart, seeing what was wrong. High school, he got involved in student council, hoping he could fix some problems in the school. He was elected their president, over and over. We lived in Marlin then, east of Waco. Ronny finished school there, and got involved with some activist group looking for better wages at the chemical plants. He really liked doing that. Some of his people were starting up in Detroit, thinking they’d boycott the car industry. They…convinced him to go. You know the rest. Ronny was a good boy, a good son.” Toward the end, Edwin’s voice broke, but he quickly controlled his emotions.

  “What about his wife, Mr. Marshall?” Maude asked. “We know he was married then. Did he see her after he came back?”

  The man’s expression changed, becoming harsh. “She was nothing but bad. Ronny met her in Marlin, fell for her. Pretty girl, she wanted him, though I don’t know why. She left him when he was arrested. Said she didn’t need no ‘jailbird husband. So no, she never came here.’”