“No, I got distracted with….” He looked sideways at the shredder.
Schwartz pushed a pile of letters at Blake, copies of the Philadelphia letters. “Except for that bullet you took, these would have kept you on the suspect list. So now we do police work. I will have to interview most of these people.”
“How on earth will you ever sort them out?”
“Oh, it shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll ask them to supply an alibi for all three shootings. It’s possible they may not be able to account for their time for one or two of the shootings, but the likelihood that more than one of them will be unable to account for all three is pretty slim. When we find that person, we have—” His cell phone interrupted him in mid-sentence. He scowled and muttered into the phone, and then his face brightened. He disconnected and turned back to Blake.
“You’ll never guess what they found in the bottom of Grace Franks’ burn barrel—a .32 caliber Colt automatic.”
***
Ike welcomed Grace Franks’ arrest, but something still nagged at him. Something someone said, something they weren’t supposed to know. He called Ruth from his car.
“Late date?”
“Maybe a beer on the porch, but that’s it, Ike. Bad day.”
“More money problems?”
“Same money problems.”
“Your people tentatively okayed a new tenant for your art storage facility,” Ike said. “That should ease the strain a little.”
“I’m afraid to ask. Who is it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Not your old CIA pals? Please tell me it’s not them.”
“Hey, it could be worse. They’re discreet, tidy up after themselves, and are willing to pay a bundle to bury something in a place where no one would think to look.”
“You really know how to put me on the spot, don’t you?”
“For the good of women’s higher education, not to mention your career—eat the crow and take the cash.”
“Could they have a name?”
“You mean something like, The Institute for the Advanced Study of Geopolitical Resources?”
“Yeah. Something like…my God, that is the name, isn’t it?”
“You have to admit, it has a nice ring to it.”
“I’ve been had!”
Chapter Fifty
Thursday morning started warm and sunny. As the morning moved toward noon, it turned hot and humid as only that part of the country can. Summer made one last stand before being banished south and away for the next six months. Blake smacked the antique window air conditioner and breathed a sigh of relief when the compressor chugged back to life. He settled into his chair and sipped his coffee, his third cup for the day. The doctor told him to cut back, that the caffeine would elevate his blood pressure and cause his wound to throb. The doctor did not lie. He popped four ibuprofen and shuffled through the mail. He had neglected it for days, and gunshot wound or no, he still had a job to do. Sylvia poked her head around the door and said good morning.
“You here? I thought you were done with cleaning up those files,” he said, slitting open an envelope, glancing at its contents and dropping it into his wastepaper basket.
“I was, but I figured with your bad shoulder and all, you could use some help for a few more days, although I can’t promise you anything. I may have to go out of town.”
“Well, I appreciate it. I guess you heard about Grace?”
“Only that the police think she is the person who shot you, Millie, and Waldo. What happened?”
“Schwartz will be here in a minute and can fill you in. Frankly, I probably don’t know as much as you.”
As if on cue, Ike Schwartz climbed the stairs.
“Well,” he said, sitting in the only other chair in the room, “it certainly looks like a wrap. We have Grace Franks in custody and have a pretty tight case against her. It will be up to that son-in-law of yours to put her away,” he said to Sylvia, who had pulled a chair in from the other room and seated herself by the door.
“You want to walk us through it, Sheriff?” Blake asked. “I still can’t see her as a killer. I suppose she was one of Waldo’s blackmail victims.”
“You all understand that anything I tell you here can’t leave this room. Are we all clear on that?”
Blake and Sylvia nodded.
“I guess you two earned it. When the deputies took Mrs. Franks’ burn barrel, their only thought was to haul it away and toss it at the county landfill. One of them noticed a hole in the base, a round hole. The metal around its edge was still bright—that meant it was a new hole. It looked suspicious. Remember, the neighbor who complained and called the office said she thought she heard an explosion. That is what drew her to the window first, not the smoke from the barrel.”
“Let me guess. It turned out to be a bullet hole,” Sylvia said.
“Right the first time. So they rolled the barrel over to a clear place in the parking lot and dumped it. Lots of old half-burnt papers, ashes, and junk. And at the bottom—this.”
Schwartz fumbled around in his pocket and produced a plastic bag with a discolored automatic in it. “This your gun, Reverend?”
Blake inspected the pistol through the plastic and shook his head. “I don’t know, Ike. It could be. It certainly looks like my gun, or what’s left of it. So you think Grace got in my house and took the gun?”
“I guess she must have. She has been lugging this thing around in that purse of hers for weeks. It has a clip that holds eight bullets, you know. Figure one chambered for a total of nine. Krueger gets two, Bass, three—that’s five. You get one, two in the door—that leaves one chambered in the pistol. She thinks eight and out, drops it in the barrel and, bang. Anyway, we checked the ballistics and it is the gun used on you, Waldo, and the Bass woman. Now our lawyer friend here will probably say, ‘Anyone could have put that gun in the barrel. What other evidence do you have?’”
“You got that right,” Sylvia said. “You better have a tight case or I might take poor Grace on as a client and defend her. It would be a real hoot beating that wet-behind-the-ears son-in-law of mine in court.”
“Well, in that case, I probably shouldn’t say anything more.”
“I’m kidding, Sheriff. Given what I’ve done so far, I’d have to recuse myself anyway. Proceed, please.”
“Well, we hauled her in and questioned her. She swears she didn’t know anything about the killings or the gun. She said, ‘Why would I take his gun when I have one of my own?’ A good question, by the way.”
“She didn’t want a traceable piece,” Sylvia said. “I mean, if she had one of her own, there would be some trace on it, some history, wouldn’t there? But if she uses someone else’s, it introduces the element of reasonable doubt.”
Schwartz eyed her steadily for a moment, his expression blank, dark eyes unblinking.
“There is that, of course,” he said slowly. “Well, anyway, she did not have an alibi for any of the times when the killings and shootings took place. I should add she is an excellent shot with a handgun, Blake. You’re lucky she missed the first time. Her father collected guns, all kinds, and taught her how to shoot, and about ammunition, safety, and so on.”
“It’s still circumstantial,” Sylvia pressed.
“Then there are the fingerprints,” he continued, ignoring her interruption. “We found them in the sacristy, Bass’ house, on some of the papers in the office, and—this is the clincher—a partial we are sure will be hers, on the gun.”
“How could there be a fingerprint left on it?” Sylvia asked. “It has been in the fire. Look at it. The grips are melted and it’s a mess.”
“Well, that’s an interesting point. It seems some people, in high-stress situations, excrete more electrolytes, salt and organic compounds
in their perspiration than others.” He looked at the quizzical expressions on their faces.
“I learned all this from the kid in the lab. Anyway, this salty stuff will precipitate out on the metal. When it is heated, like in a fire, it etches the metal like acid. So we have a partial.”
“That’s pretty definitive,” Sylvia said, frowning. “You’re sure about that print?”
“As sure as I can be, given the state of the art. There’ll only be a few identity points, four maybe, I think, and six is sort of the accepted minimum needed to convince a jury, but when you put it all together….”
“Sounds like you got your killer,” she said brightly.
“But why, Ike? What drove her to it? What did Waldo have on her that drove her to murder?” Blake asked.
“It seems she was having an affair with the guy next door. Poor man has an invalid wife. Mrs. Franks has a clod for a husband. They sympathized with one another and then, well, you can imagine. Funny thing about that—Franks, the husband, said he knew all about it and they were working it out. He took her to the beach recently to talk it through. But I guess she’d gone too far by then.”
“I still don’t see how she’s connected to Waldo,” Sylvia said. “I thought he worked anonymously, somehow.”
“Why did you think that?”
“If he hadn’t, as soon as he got shot, you would have heard from at least one of his victims and you would have had a motive. The FBI might never have been called in the first place.”
“Very astute. Actually he did. She admitted she received a note from someone threatening her and giving instructions to leave money in a certain place. She did, and she must have followed him back here. She denies it, of course, but I don’t see any other way.”
“So she follows him back here, waits for the moment and shoots him,” Sylvia said. “You left out the business with the water bottle.”
“Yeah, why did she use the bottle?” Blake said.
Schwartz paused and seemed to study the two of them. “She must have picked it up from the trash on the way in.”
“Then she thought her problems were over until she hears something that Bass said that convinced her that the files, and therefore the potential blackmailer, had moved. There must have been a confrontation, and that explained the next killing.”
“But why me?” Blake asked. “Surely she didn’t think I had the files. I told the Board that. Bob Franks is on the Board, and though he was not at the meeting, he knew. Dan Quarles told him.”
“That part I think I can figure out,” Schwartz said. “As I said, she spent the evening denying everything, but she did say that you, Reverend, were the cause of all her problems.”
Chapter Fifty-one
“Me? Why me?”
“I warned you. I said you should check your sermons—that all the shootings followed one, and here we are, Reverend. It seems your preaching the last three Sundays caught her—‘convicted me,’ she said. Every time you made a point about adultery or anger, or forgiveness, she thought you were looking straight at her. Thought you knew about the affair and therefore must have seen her file.”
“That’s it?” Sylvia asked.
“Pretty much. I have one or two loose ends to tie up, and then I’ll turn it over to your boy,” Schwartz said and stood.
“Thanks, Ike,” Blake said. “I would get up and walk you out, but I am in no condition to. My sermons, huh?”
“Just quoting the lady. You should be more circumspect in the future. I’m not all that keen on corpses popping up all over town every Monday.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go see Grace in the morning.”
“You’ll do what?” Ike and Sylvia said in unison.
“Go and see her. Whatever she may have done, she still needs ministering.”
“Get someone else,” Schwartz said sharply. “You are our star witness. If you are caught talking to the defendant anytime before trial, you compromise the case. Tell him, Madam Lawyer.”
“He’s right, you can’t do it. Ask Bournet or someone else to go. Don’t even return her calls.” When Sylvia said it, it sounded like an order.
“That’s it for now,” Ike said. “We’ll just tie up a few loose ends and—”
“You don’t still have some doubts?” Sylvia asked, face serious.
“It’s like a jigsaw puzzle. I still have a few pieces missing. You know how that is. Seems pretty good, but…too bad one of your parishioners had to be the heavy in this, Reverend.”
He left. Sylvia watched him disappear down the steps, a frown on her face. Then she rolled her chair around the corner and back into her space. Blake stared at the paneling on the wall. His eye wandered over his diplomas and certificates. They were the proofs of his intellectual and career achievements, years spent in the pursuit of position and power. A very impressive array, he thought, but not worth a cold fried egg when it came to working with people. That skill came from the heart, not from the head. Cerebral machinations could not equal a tear, a pat on the arm, a respectful silence. A few minutes later, Sylvia called out that she was sorry but she had to leave. Blake said goodbye.
Something nagged at Blake. Something someone said, or the way they said it, something did not fit. Schwartz reminded him of jigsaw puzzles. He once attempted one and got one piece out of place. The pieces looked so much alike, it was possible to force two together that really did not belong, leaving pieces that did not fit anywhere. That one misplaced piece stymied him for days. He finally had to pull almost all of it apart and start over before he finally finished. He sensed a piece out of place somewhere but he could not see where.
He slept most of the afternoon. He would never recommend getting shot, but it did get him off the hook from a number of chores he might otherwise have had to do. Besides, he wanted to be ready and refreshed for the evening. He planned to attend choir rehearsal that night. Afterward, he was going to have some time with Mary and, if he had the courage, tell her something he had never told any woman since he was sixteen.
At seven, he polished off his microwave meal, dropped the plastic dish in the trash, and walked to the church. The choir, minus Bob Franks, filled their pews and greeted him as he entered. He sat where he was out of their line of sight but had a clear and unobstructed view of Mary.
The rehearsal went well. As far as he was concerned, he was listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. He found himself humming along and then, in response to several disapproving looks from the back row, stopped. The session ended at eight-thirty. The choir filed out and he was left alone with Mary.
“The organ suitable?” he asked. He knew it was.
“Fine. Actually more than fine. How’s your shoulder?”
“Better every day,” he said. The silence after he said it began to stretch into awkwardness.
“Well,” she said, “I’d better be off.” But she made no move to leave.
“Mary?” he said and cleared his throat. The phone rang in the sacristy. “Excuse me,” he said, temporarily relieved, and went to answer it. He picked up the receiver.
“Blake? It’s me,” the voice said.
“Grace?” he stammered.
“No, it’s Sylvia.”
“I’m sorry, Sylvia, I didn’t recognize your voice. After our session with Ike, I have Grace on the brain. What can I do for you?”
“I have to leave town and I wanted to talk about the board position. Dan withdrew his resignation. He said you told him to. I’m a little hurt, Blake. I thought we had an understanding.” Her voice was harder than he remembered, harder and edgy.
“It’s no problem, really, Sylvia. Amy Brandt will be resigning soon. By the time you return, there will be a place—”
“I still need to see you. There is more to this than just a board membership, as you know. Tonight?”
> Blake’s face knotted into a frown. “All right, meet me here in the church.”
“I’m on my way.”
He stood staring at the phone for nearly a full minute. He went back to the organ. Mary had gathered her things. She looked at him expectantly.
“Mary,” he said, “I have two things I need to tell you. One of them is extremely important and the other extremely rude. I want you to hear the first and forgive the second.”
She stood still, waiting.
“Mary, I love you. I love you very much. But I want you to leave right now. Go home, get out.”
“Blake?”
“Please, Mary. Hear the first. Do the second. I’ll explain later.”
“I love you, too, Blake Fisher,” she said, and left.
Chapter Fifty-two
He almost missed hearing the door close. Because of his bandages, he had to sit slightly sideways in his chair, and that made it creak when he swiveled. It did so as he quietly closed his desk drawer and faced the door. Then he was sure. He heard the footsteps on the stairs.
“Anybody here? Blake?”
“In the office, Sylvia. Just finishing some paperwork and calls. You know how it is, no rest for the wicked.”
Only his desk lamp illuminated the room, leaving the rest in deep shadows. The door to the sacristy stood slightly ajar. The pool of light cast by the desk lamp lighted Sylvia from the waist down as she crossed the space from door to chair and sat, purse in her lap. Once seated, he could just make out the contours of her face. The dim light exaggerated the streaks in her hair and cast deep shadows on her face. The effect was a little frightening. As always, she was beautifully turned out in a dark gray silk suit and eggshell blouse. He guessed her purse alone cost five hundred dollars. He recognized the accessories from another life, a life now far removed, probably never to be his again. This woman could change all that. He had no option but to wait and see.
“I was very upset when I heard you’d convinced Quarles to stay on the board. Can I ask why? I mean, we have a lot of work to do, and that man is not the person to get it done.”
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