When I dashed into the just-reopened library, the first person I ran into was Roberta Krepinski. She seemed in better shape physically, but she did not look happy.
“Have you seen the number of cars in our parking lot? It’s full! And everyone wants to see where Drew Wellington was killed. It’s all covered and taped off by the sheriff’s department, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the pathologically curious.” She paused. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m beginning to regret that the county got the budget to have us open on Sundays.”
“I’m sorry, Roberta.” I tried to sound sympathetic. But what I actually felt was uneasiness at being back in the library. “Listen, we have some books for the sale. Could you open the rear exit for us?”
“And now I heard there was another body, out in the creek below the falls. That other map dealer, Larry Craddock?” Roberta muttered as I followed her down the hallway to the rear exit. “What is this town coming to?”
“I have no idea.”
Tom insisted on unloading all the boxes, because he said he didn’t want me to hurt myself. “At least, not any more than you’ve already managed to inflict damage on your own person,” he added.
“Thanks a lot.”
He hefted up the first of the boxes. “Just go get your picture.”
Roberta was very happy to help me locate a news photo of Sandee from the archives of the Mountain Journal. She gladly photocopied it for me.
“Roberta, the sheriff’s department will get this figured out.”
“Uh-huh. That I doubt very much.” But she did manage to give me a small smile. “Thanks for asking me to do real librarian-type work, instead of answering questions on what kind of blade was used to stab Drew Wellington.”
When Neil Tharp answered the door at his small frame house, he was wearing a beige sweatsuit that just about matched his skin color. He carried a heavy weight, maybe twenty pounds, in his left hand. We appeared to have interrupted his workout.
“Oh, the caterer in mink,” he said flatly. He lifted his chin and regarded Tom. “Your officers just left. Why are the two of you here?”
“May we come in, Neil?” I asked. I was carrying one of the bags of cookies Julian had packed up, as well as the photocopy of Sandee’s news photo. “I have something for you, and I need to show you a photograph of the woman I was talking to you about in church.”
“I suppose.” He was still limping, although it was less noticeable than it had been a couple of hours earlier. He racked his weight and invited us to sit down on one of two couches in his mostly bare living room. Both couches were covered with sheets. Clearly, Neil followed the decorating theme of Closed English Summerhouse.
“You heard about Larry Craddock,” I asked once we were seated. It was less of a question than a statement of fact.
“Of course I heard about Larry Craddock,” Neil said, exasperated. “The police questioned me about our altercation last night.” He shook his head. “Larry had a propensity for violence, but that doesn’t mean he needed to die.”
“We don’t think he should have died either,” Tom said, his first words since we’d arrived.
“Do you have any suspects?” Neil asked, arching an eyebrow. “Besides me, I mean?”
“If we did,” Tom replied evenly, “do you think I’d tell you?”
Neil groaned. “First Drew, now Larry. When is this going to end?”
I placed the cookies on a sheet-covered table, then handed the copied picture of Sandee to our not-very-hospitable host.
“Never seen her before,” he commented flatly as he handed the photo back. I had the clear feeling he was lying. “What did she do?”
“I told you,” I replied. “She may have been following Drew and sending him threatening e-mails. I also saw her right after Larry was killed.”
“Well, Officer Schulz,” Neil commented sarcastically, “why don’t you just go pick her up?”
“You know where she’s staying?” Tom asked.
When Neil didn’t answer, Tom gestured to me to ask more questions…if I had them. I groped around in my mind for anything I might want to ask Neil about Drew Wellington or Larry Craddock.
“Do you know any more about those missing maps you mentioned to me?” I asked.
“No, as a matter of fact. But why don’t you ask your husband here to let me into Drew Wellington’s house, to let me look for them? No one else will recognize them but me, anyway.” He gave Tom a fig-tree-withering gaze. “Will you allow me into Wellington’s house? I have a key, anyway, so I could go in whenever I wanted.”
“You go in,” Tom said, his voice still level, “and we’ll arrest you faster than you can say ‘world atlas.’”
“I figured as much.” Neil exhaled.
“We have a researcher working with the department,” Tom said at length. “He’s verified that the map of Nebraska you described is the one we found on Drew when he died—”
“Yes!” Neil interrupted, brightening. “Did you find anything else?”
Tom lifted his chin. “We found the antiquarian map of Texas, downstream of Larry’s body.”
“Anything else?” Neil asked, his eyes bugging out. He was practically panting.
“Yeah.” Tom looked up at the ceiling. It seemed to me he was enjoying making Neil sweat even more than he already was. “Our researcher says both maps have been reported stolen from a library in Baltimore. One of their cleaners found an X-Acto blade near the atlas section one night, and they had to go through all their atlases to see if anything was missing.”
“Oh God,” Neil said, defeated.
“So was your boss stealing maps and selling them?”
It took Neil a long time to answer. “Will I be arrested if I didn’t actually participate in a crime, but knew about it?”
“Depends on what you have to tell me. I could put a good word in for you with the D.A.”
“The D.A., my ass,” Neil spat. “The former D.A., Drew Wellington, was cutting maps out of atlases since before I knew him. Larry knew, I think, or at least suspected it.” He shook his head. “Drew used an X-Acto knife. I pleaded with him to stop, but he kept saying, ‘I just want to make one more big score,’ like it was a bank robbery, or a woman he wanted to”—here, Neil gave me an apologetic look—“to, uh, make love to. Although he wouldn’t have called it that.”
“Did he make one last big score?” Tom asked. “In the cartographic, not the female, department?”
“He did,” Neil admitted, dejected. Tom pulled out his notebook and waited for Neil to go on. “Drew stole,” he said, his voice heavy, “the New World map I told you about, the one from 1682.” Neil rubbed his forehead. “He stole it from what’s called Special Collections at Stanford. About six months ago. That’s all I know about it, except that Drew was the most calculating, narcissistic man I ever met.” Exhausted by his revelation, Neil slumped back on his couch while Tom wrote.
When no one seemed willing to pick up the conversation again, I had an idea. “Do you know Chantal MacArthur? Daughter to your hosts last night?” As I suspected, Neil colored deeply and began to fidget. Tom lifted his eyebrows, suddenly alert.
“Not really,” Neil said hesitantly.
“What does that mean?” Tom asked. “Not really?”
Neil, suddenly confused and deflated, looked from Tom to me and then back again. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Do you?” Tom asked. “Because if you’re going to be arrested for something, then I need to tell you that a lawyer will be provided for you if you can’t afford one.” He glanced around the living room. “And from the looks of things, you can’t afford one. You also have the right to remain silent. Has my wife asked you a question that will lead to your arrest?”
Neil exhaled nervously and rubbed his hands together. “If I confess to something, will you arrest me?”
“Oh God, Neil,” I said impatiently. “Did you kill Drew Wellington? Or Larry Craddock?”
He recoiled. “No, no, of cour
se I didn’t!” An unsavory smell of workout perspiration odor was suddenly noticeable. Or was it fear that was making Neil sweat?
“What then?” I asked. This man was really beginning to annoy me, even more than he had already.
“Drew…well, actually, Drew and Larry and I…we gave Chantal MacArthur and a couple of her friends some bourbon.” He gave Tom a worried look. “They mixed it with ginger ale and got really giggly.”
“Where and when did all this happen?” Tom asked.
Neil squirmed in his chair, unwilling to give more details. Blood rushed to his face, which made him look even more piglike than usual.
“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “I’m not going to arrest you for giving spirits to a minor. But if something else went down, I need to know.”
Neil pressed his lips together. At length he said bitterly, “It was Smithfield’s fault. Well, actually, it was Drew’s fault, because once Smithfield was late, Drew started acting a little nuts. I mean, the whole thing with the negligees was his idea.”
God help us. I had the presence of mind to say, “Start at the beginning, will you?”
Neil tucked his hands under his armpits. “Smithfield MacArthur was coming back from a map show in Las Vegas. He wanted to see all three of us, he said—Drew, Larry, me. Smithfield had said he was eager to give us news of the show. At least that was what he said into Drew’s voice mail. Hermie was out shopping, but she’d left word that her daughter would let us in. I think Smithfield wanted Drew there especially, because, well, you know, Drew was always late, and Smithfield had gotten tired of waiting for him—”
“Get to the booze-and-nightie part,” Tom said sharply.
“Chantal let us in and then she and her friends asked us a lot of questions, chatted about school, you know. They were cute, and, well, nubile.” Tears erupted from Neil’s eyes. He untucked his hands and wiped his cheeks. “I’m so ashamed. I’d already screwed up once giving a…drug to a woman. Well, you know about that. Drew began flirting with Chantal, asking did she have a boyfriend, that kind of thing. When she said she didn’t, Drew asked if Smithfield had a liquor cabinet. Chantal was embarrassed at first, but Drew said it was okay, we were old friends of her father, and would she bring the bourbon out so he could fix us all drinks? So she did, and then her girlfriends wanted some, too. Bourbon and ginger ale, can you imagine a more girlie drink than that? When Chantal and her friends began to get giggly, Drew said, why didn’t they change into something more comfortable? He was really coming on to them, acting his usual way, Mr. Seductive. He always wanted something from people, you know? They thought he was good-looking, they thought he was articulate, they thought he was smart. He was thinking, meanwhile, What can I get out of these stupid folks?”
Tom cleared his throat. “So, Neil. You were telling us about the girls, and when Drew told them to go put on something else.”
“Well, let’s see.” Neil’s tone had become reluctant. “I think some of the girls were scared, but some of them wanted to play along.”
Tom reopened his notebook. “You know what? I’d really like to know the names of everyone who was there.”
“I don’t know their names,” Neil wailed. “I never did. I just know they changed into little filmy nightgowns and such.” He colored deeply again. “Drew loved it and asked if they could put on some music and dance. Larry realized things were getting out of hand, thank God. He said we should all probably leave. Chantal cried, ‘Don’t go! I’ll find us some good CDs!’ So she put on the stereo, real loud, and I guess she didn’t know that it was on outside, too. The MacArthurs have one of those fancy systems—” He stopped when he saw Tom’s warning look. “Well, I thought my eardrums were going to pop. I guess a neighbor heard it and saw our cars. She called the cops. At least that’s what I heard later, because when that damn music started blaring, I thought, I am out of here. I raced to my car—”
“When did all this happen?” Tom interrupted.
“There should be a police report,” Neil said miserably. “It was the first part of November, I think. Anyway, when I skedaddled, I passed a sheriff’s-department car as I was going by the Regal Ridge Snow Sports Area.”
“Did Larry Craddock get out, too, before the police arrived?”
“Yes, I think so. We…weren’t on the best of terms, and we didn’t talk much, even when we were all there drinking.” He gulped. “With the girls. Drew laughed later, telling me how he’d gotten out before law enforcement arrived. You know, I’m just sure he knew the whole situation was getting out of hand. But good old Drew, he must have figured that Smithfield had made him wait and wait and wait, so he was going to pay him back by getting his daughter into, you know, a compromising position.” Neil swallowed again. “I mean, so to speak. But why would Drew take the risk? He’d already had that incident when he was stopped for a DUI.”
“With a teenage girl in the car,” Tom supplied. “Did he feel entitled to do that, too?”
“I don’t know. That was long before I worked for him. But Drew told me about it. He said the girl was the daughter of a rich couple who hadn’t given as much to his campaign as he thought they should have.” Neil paused and licked his lips. “So, the giving alcohol to a minor, even in her own home…is that illegal?”
“You bet it is.” Tom narrowed his eyes. “You’d better believe it is. Do not ever, and I do mean ever, try to pull that kind of thing again, or I’ll arrest you so fast on contributing to the delinquency of a minor, you won’t be thinking you’ve been hit by a snowball, you’ll think you’ve been hit by a meteor. Got it?”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Neil cried. “I was only a part of it because my boss was a part of it, you know?”
I couldn’t help interjecting, “You were only following orders. Right, Neil?”
Neil groaned and put his face into his fleshy hands. “This is going to kill me.” He began to cry.
“You’ll survive.” Tom’s tone was not reassuring.
Neil and I flinched when my cell phone buzzed. Tom didn’t move. I said, “I’d better take this outside.”
“I’m going to talk some more to Mr. Tharp. Give him a few warnings.”
Neil started blubbering again. Somehow I didn’t care.
19
Once I was outside Neil Tharp’s door, I pressed Talk on my cell.
“Goldy!” Our connection was crackly, so I didn’t immediately respond. “Your friend, Yvonne? Yvonne’s Yummies? You called me for information about some people who had moved from Colorado Springs to Aspen Meadow?”
“Sorry.” I felt dazed after seeing Neil. “What’s up?”
“I think I have something for you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“This fall,” my friend went on, “I did a huge farewell dinner for some people who were moving back to Aspen Meadow. The group the man worked for wanted him right away, for their Denver office. Before they left, the family didn’t even have time to put their place on the market. I thought somebody was living there, like maybe they were renting it or something? But I just drove by the other day, and it’s still for sale. Anyway, the guy was some hotshot doctor, not a banker. But his wife’s name was Catherine, and they had a fifteen-year-old daughter. The girl was named after a flower, but I can’t for the life of me think of what it was. Daisy or something. She was a cute little thing, eager to help in the kitchen. Anyway, even though the guy wasn’t a banker, he had a bank-type name. Barclay, you know? Like Barclay’s bank.”
“Was the girl’s name Violet?” I asked.
“That’s it! Violet. Only the mom called her something else.”
“Vix?”
There was a perplexed silence. “So, you know these people? Have you done a party for them?”
“No, but you’ve answered all my questions. Thanks.” I told her I would see her soon and hung up. So…Sandee’s cousin, the one she had taken care of when she was twelve, the little girl whom she’d been so protective of, as she was with all young children, given
the nightmare of her own family life, was now a fifteen-year-old girl. She was Violet, aka Vix, Barclay. I was quite sure that Vix was the teenage girl I’d seen in the car with Sandee back in November, when I’d passed them on the road to Regal Ridge. She was also Chantal MacArthur’s best buddy, but I hadn’t recognized her the last time I’d seen her, because her face had been covered with blue glop.
She was also one of the girls who’d been present when Drew encouraged them to try cocktails.
Either the cold weather was penetrating my jacket, or I was feeling chilled from what I’d just heard. Tom, who had the keys to the van, was still inside reading Neil Tharp the riot act. I hugged myself and reflected on what my Colorado Springs friend had told me.
Sandee herself had been sexually molested when she was a teenager. She’d also been raped by my ex-husband, whom she had murdered.
Years ago, Drew Wellington had been caught driving drunk, with a teenage girl in his car. He’d lost the next election. Last month Drew Wellington and his cohorts had given little Vix Barclay booze, and invited her to put on something more comfortable.
So apparently Drew Wellington hadn’t learned his lesson.
In “protecting her assets,” had Sandee Brisbane decided to teach Drew Wellington his lesson, once and for all?
Had she given Larry Craddock the same lesson?
Was she planning on giving some instruction to Neil Tharp, too?
When Tom finally came out and we climbed into my van, Tom said, “Did you believe Tharp’s story?”
“Absolutely.” I glanced at him inquiringly, but he was staring out the windshield. “Why? Didn’t you?”
“Not sure. He certainly had motive to be rid of Wellington. And he was just telling me he wants to go into Drew Wellington’s house for something he won’t specify. ‘Just files,’ he says.”
“Huh. Do you think the Rodin drawing or New World map might be in there?”
“We did a thorough search and inventory. We would have noticed either of those.”
I frowned. “Hermie MacArthur told me Neil had called her. Said he wanted to come to tomorrow’s lunch. Apparently, Neil wanted to show something to her husband.”
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