by Carolyn Hart
Wiggins stood before me in his usual white shirt, black suspenders, black wool trousers, and black shoes. This was his attire in his office that overlooked the curving silver tracks at his station. For Wiggins to abruptly appear in a silent room at Rose Bower shocked me.
His spaniel brown eyes were wide with distress. “There’s no hope for Susan now.”
Chapter 9
Susan stood rigid, arms raised. “Don’t shoot. I don’t have a gun. I don’t!” Her brown eyes were wide with shock. She stood with her back to the sink in a wet bar. The water was running. Her hands were wet and the cuffs of her sleeves were wet. A sopping dish towel lay partially in the sink.
A young police officer, his face pale, his cheeks taut, gripped a service revolver with both hands, aimed the muzzle directly at Susan. He was tall and thin, not long past a teenager. “Don’t move.” His voice was a little too high and it wobbled.
A muscular officer in his forties, thinning blond hair, a tired face, eased from behind the younger man. He ordered in a deep voice, “Cover me, Porter. I’ll handcuff her.” He moved toward Susan, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his left hand. His right hand hovered near his holster. Even with the backup of his partner, he kept an unwavering stare on Susan, ready for any movement.
I felt a squeeze on my arm, a signal that Wiggins was leaving me here to do my best. The scent of coal smoke diminished. The sound of the wheels faded. The departure of the Rescue Express wasn’t heard by the three people—four, if you counted the dead man on the floor—in the rustically furnished living room of the cabin near the Fitch lake.
“Take two steps forward. Put your hands behind your back.” The officer’s order was brusque.
“Will he stop pointing that gun at me?” Susan’s voice wavered.
“When I snap the cuffs, he’ll put the gun away.” The words were quick, cold.
Her eyes never moving from the muzzle of the gun, Susan slowly took two steps forward, stopped, lowered her arms, put her hands behind her.
The bigger man moved fast, swung behind Susan. Click.
Officer Porter’s eyelids fluttered. He took several breaths, slowly lowered the gun, eased it into the leather holster.
I had a sense he was struggling to keep his hands from shaking.
Susan watched as he slid the gun into the holster, then she, too, drew deep breaths. Susan would have been lovely in a tan long-sleeved blouse and midcalf navy flannel skirt if it weren’t for a face slack with shock and a smear of blood on one of her tan suede wedge heels. She looked bewildered and stricken. “I tried to see if he was alive. I got blood on my hands.” There was horror in her voice. “I came over here to wash my hands so I could call for help.”
The older policeman—his nameplate read D. Warren—gave her a hard level stare. “No hurry for him.” He lifted his phone, punched, spoke loudly. “No longer active shooter scene. One-eight-seven. Male. DOA. Cabin on Fitch estate approximately half mile from house. Apparent gunshot to chest. Forty to fifty years old. Five foot ten to six feet tall. Weight around one eighty. Possible suspect in custody. Female. Name Susan Gilbert. No weapon visible. No search has been made.” A pause. He stood a little straighter. “Yes, sir.” He repeated the information. “We have everything under control.”
Porter’s eyes scanned the floor. He knew better than to disturb the body until death was officially proclaimed by the medical examiner. “I’ll look around.” He made a slow circuit of the room, looking behind furniture.
Susan stared at Officer Warren. “How do you know my name?” She was grappling with the fact that he knew her. How could he know her? And how was it that the police were here?
I knew she’d read the Gazette story, but obviously she’d not focused on the mayor’s announcement about around-the-clock surveillance. I’d paid no attention, either. The killer, who well knew that Susan must be of intense interest to the police, didn’t miss that information. The killer knew the police likely would follow Susan wherever she went. How about decoying her to the murder scene, waiting for her arrival, then, as a clever finishing touch, shooting the gun and knowing there would be cops to hear the shot.
Susan tried again. “I just got here.” Her voice was thin. “I found him—”
Warren made a sharp chopping motion with his left hand.
Susan broke off.
Warren listened. “That’s right, Chief. Susan Gilbert. Porter and I were staked out at the Gilbert house tonight. She exited her back door at approximately four minutes before ten. She departed her driveway at two minutes before ten. She drove to the back entrance to the Fitch property, turned in at three minutes after ten. We parked on street at four minutes after ten, proceeded on foot. Came in view of cabin at six minutes after ten. Gilbert’s car was parked in front of cabin. The cabin porch light was on and the front windows were lighted. We were approximately a hundred yards from the porch when a shot was fired. We ducked into the shadows, called for backup—”
Sirens wailed. Homicide and the forensic van were arriving. It isn’t far from the police station in City Hall to the homes high on a hill in the best part of town.
“—and worked our way up to the cabin. All remained quiet. We moved from shadow to shadow, reached the porch at maybe eleven after ten. Porter got here first. He asked me to cover him. He went up on the porch from one side, hugged the wall, moved to the door. The door, no screen, was ajar. He yelled, ‘Police. Hands up,’ kicked the door open, went in sideways like he was supposed to, had his gun out.” There was an admiring tone in Warren’s voice. He thought the young cop passed a tough test. “I was right behind him. Gilbert was over at a sink. The water was running. She swung around and looked toward the door. Porter ordered Gilbert to get her hands up. She did. She’s handcuffed—”
The shrill sirens abruptly cut off. Doors slammed. Feet thudded outside on the wooden porch. Sam Cobb was first through the door, Detective Sergeant Hal Price close behind. Sam was holding his cell phone. He had obviously moved quickly from his car, but there was no struggle for breath as he surveyed the room: Susan. His officers. The dead man.
In less than a minute, Sam had the scene under control, everyone outside on the porch to await the arrival of the medical examiner. As he spoke with Porter and Warren, a lean intense figure approached the cars and whirling lights. Joan Crandall as always held a notebook and pencil. No doubt access was barred from the street, but Joan likely nodded when she was prohibited from entering then walked far enough away to slip into the woods and find a way to the cabin road. Joan stood a few feet away from the porch and scanned the waiting figures. Her gaze settled on Susan. She began to write.
Susan tried to speak, “I knew he was hurt and—”
Sam shot her a hard look. “We’ll get to it in time, Miss Gilbert. For now you’re in custody as a material witness. I want to warn you that anything you say—”
Susan listened to the Miranda warning. “I didn’t shoot him.”
Sam was brusque. “You can have your say later. We have a body to deal with.” He jerked a thumb at a redheaded officer. “Understand she was washing her hands.” He looked around, gestured for a tech. “Put some adhesive tabs on her right hand to check for gunshot residue. Put them in an evidence bag.” He turned back to the big redhead. “When that’s done, check her in at the jail. She gets one phone call. Impound the car. Get a search warrant.”
I was on the porch next to Susan when headlights swept over the parked cars and the knot of officers on the porch. The redheaded officer moved Susan toward the steps, a large hand gripping her upper left arm. A familiar red sports car squealed to a stop behind the forensic van. The door swung out and Jacob Brandt was on his feet and moving fast toward the cabin. He looked snazzy tonight in a blue sport coat, red pullover sweater, and navy slacks. He carried a leather satchel. “Hell of a time to get a call.” He looked glum. “She’s too damn pretty to sit there by herself for
long. Where’s the body? Inside?” And he was through the door.
Susan and the officer were at the foot of the stairs, turning toward a cruiser. I hovered next to Susan, bent near, whispered, “I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”
She jerked to a stop, looked wildly to her right.
I kept close. “Get Megan Wynn for your lawyer. Tell her Jimmy’s redheaded friend wants her to help you.”
Susan said blankly, “Redheaded friend?”
The officer was brusque. “Knock it off.”
Susan glared at him. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Who are you talking to then?”
Susan took a deep breath. “That’s a good question. But I have an answer. Jimmy’s redheaded friend.”
The officer’s grip tightened. “Like I said, knock it off. Acting nuts won’t save you, either.”
Susan tried to shake free. “Let go of me. I’ll walk to the car. I’m not nuts. You people are nuts. I come here and find a body and nobody listens to me. I didn’t shoot Carl Ross. I’m here because he called and said he knew something that could help me and I believed him. He would have seen Wilbur Fitch after the party, made sure he didn’t want anything else that night. But I didn’t shoot Carl. I don’t have a gun. I’ve never had a gun. I’ve never shot a gun. I came to meet him and I found him on the floor. I tried to help him and then I heard a shot—”
The officer, face expressionless, grip still tight on her arm, urged her forward. They reached the first cruiser. He opened the back door, none too gently pushed her in.
“—and all of sudden the police are shouting and one of them points a gun at—”
The door slammed.
Joan Crandall was a few feet away, writing furiously.
I hated watching the cruiser pull away. I hoped Susan wasn’t ordered to don an orange jail jumpsuit. Perhaps a material witness was permitted to remain in street clothes. She was already shaken and upset, finding Wilbur’s butler in a pool of blood, trying to help, staining a shoe. The fact that the police had followed her, had been assigned to watch her, indicated how tenuous was her hold on freedom. And now she was found standing by a dead man. She must feel that the ordinary world had disappeared and she was plunged into a nightmare that didn’t end. But for now I needed to stay here and learn what I could about the death of Carl Ross.
I moved back into the cabin. The overhead light in the living room was a chandelier shaped like a wagon wheel with lights that looked like old-fashioned lamps. The room was designed for comfort, several rustic sofas in a cheery maple with cushions upholstered in blue denim, a large wet bar against one wall, a bridge table with a checkerboard, a pool table with cues in a nearby rack, the balls contained within their triangle on the green felt. A ceiling-to-floor plate glass window would offer a clear view of the lake in daytime. Now there was only darkness beyond.
Jacob Brandt knelt by the body. He stripped off a plastic glove, touched the dead man’s cheek. He pulled off the other glove, balled them in his left hand, and pushed up from the floor. “Gunshot oblique angle. Left front to right back, struck the heart. Shooter was standing, victim seated. That accounts for the angle. Death instantaneous. No exit wound. Bullet may be lodged in the spinal cord. I’ll get it to you. Tomorrow.”
“Tonight,” Sam said mildly.
“If she’s still at the table, I want to make nice for a couple more hours. I’ll take a look for it around midnight. I hope not any earlier. Otherwise”—he was stuffing plastic gloves in his jacket pocket—“no other apparent trauma.” He started for the door. “Room isn’t overheated, maybe sixty-eight degrees. I’ll do an incision, poke a thermometer into the liver when I do the autopsy. But I think I can get pretty close right now. Dead at least an hour, absolute max two hours.” He glanced at a watch with enough dials and hands to navigate the Bosporus. “Ten forty-five now. Roughly he was shot between eight forty-five and nine forty-five at the latest. My best estimate is around nine thirty. That’s all for now.” He made it to the door and through faster than a greyhound chasing a lure.
As the door closed behind the medical examiner, Hal murmured to Sam, “She must be a knockout.” Outside the sports car engine roared.
As the forensic team began its careful work, I looked down on the scene. I recognized Carl Ross’s gray sweats and sneakers, perhaps his costume of choice when not working. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His sweatshirt was soggy with blood. The blood had welled onto the floor. There was a smear and what looked like a partial footprint. Susan said she’d tried to see if she could help him. Perhaps she hurried across the room and as she bent over she stepped into a pool of blood.
Lights flashed as photos were taken. One tech held a camera, filmed the body and the surrounding area.
I scanned the room for a clock. The film would record not only the scene but the time the video was made. Ross lay a little on one side. One long arm splayed out. I moved close, carefully turned the wrist so I could read the time. Ten minutes to eleven.
“Hey.”
Faces turned. Sam’s heavy face was inquiring.
The tech clutched the camera close to her chest. She retreated one step, another. “Hey, somebody take a look. His arm moved.”
Sam strode nearer. “Maybe rigor mortis.” He was soothing. “He’s dead. The ME said so. And so do I.”
The tech swallowed. “I don’t care what anybody says, his right arm turned. Like he was going to look at his watch.” The last words quivered.
“Uh.” Sam glanced around. “Not to worry. Maybe there was a little quake. Shook his arm. You know we have them all the time.” His voice was still soothing. But his brown eyes continued to check out the room. “Alert of you to notice, Roberts. Continue to film.”
Slowly the videocam was lifted.
“Speaking of time”—Sam continued to think out loud, looked at Porter and Warren—“tell me again when you left the Gilbert house?”
Warren pulled a small notebook from his pocket, repeated the times he’d relayed in his call to the dispatcher.
Sam looked thoughtful. “Shot fired at about seven minutes after ten?”
Warren nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Sam and Hal exchanged a glance. They moved out of the way of the filming tech, stood near the pool table with a good view of the overstuffed chair and the body that lay at an angle to it. I was close enough to hear their low-voiced conversation.
“Screwy.” Hal stood with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of well-worn chinos. He was as remarkably handsome as the first time I glimpsed him, tall, lean, a blue-eyed blond with regular features and a mouth that could spread in a generous grin. Then he’d been an attractive bachelor. Now he was married to Deirdre Davenport, a young woman I’d assisted when her fingerprints were found on a murder weapon.
“Screwy sums it up.” Sam rubbed his chin with the knuckles of his right hand. “Jake is good at his job. If he thinks Ross was dead by nine forty-five at the outside limit, the timing of the shot is an anomaly.”
“You sound like Deirdre.” Hal’s wife was a writer and teacher. “Anomaly’s above my pay grade. How about, Why was a shot fired if he was already dead? And who fired a gun?”
Sam heaved an irritated sigh. “Coincidence sucks, but maybe somebody was out in the woods and shot off a gun.”
“Once?”
“Seems so.”
Hal persisted. “Right next to a cabin where a guy’s been shot?”
“That,” Sam said ironically, “is the coincidence.”
“Okay.” Hal was equable. “For now let’s skip the seven minutes past ten shot. Whether it killed him or not, he was definitely shot here tonight within the last couple of hours.”
“And the woman we think killed her boss is right on the scene.” Sam’s gaze settled on the chair and the body. “Here’s how I read it. He was sitting in that chair. J
ake said he was shot by somebody standing while he was sitting. That correlates with the body slumping off the chair onto the floor.” His gaze flickered to a sofa to the right of the chair. “The sofa is at a right angle to the chair. I picture Ross and a guest, both seated. They had a talk. I’d like to have heard that talk. We can figure that Ross knew something that made him a danger to Wilbur Fitch’s murderer. Ross was used to staying up late, seeing if his boss wanted anything. That was probably true unless Minerva Lloyd was spending the night. I imagine Wilbur gave him those evenings off. Otherwise, he’s on duty until Wilbur sends him away. What happened last night?”
Hal was right with him. “Ross saw something or someone that he linked to Wilbur’s murder. Maybe he was in that cross hallway, about to call it a night, when he heard a knock on Wilbur’s door. Maybe he looked around a corner, saw someone he knew. The visitor didn’t alarm him. Instead, Ross decides he’s off duty and goes downstairs and out to the garage apartment. Or maybe he was on his way to the garage apartment and saw someone in the garden. The person was known to him so he didn’t raise an alarm. He saw someone somewhere. This morning he finds out Wilbur was bludgeoned to death in his study sometime after midnight. He figures the late-night visitor is the killer.”
“He didn’t call us.” There was a note of finality in Sam’s voice. “Instead Ross saw himself riding a gravy train. He knew something, could tell the police something, prove someone was with Wilbur after the party, and no one has admitted seeing Wilbur after midnight. He called Wilbur’s late-night visitor, said something like we have a matter to discuss, like where you were at so many minutes after midnight last night. The police would find that information interesting. But maybe we can work out a deal. I’ll forget all about what I saw for, say, fifty thousand dollars. I’ll take a down payment. Bring five thousand to the lake cabin at, depending on who shot him, either a little before ten if Gilbert’s the perp or a quarter past nine if somebody set her up. After Ross made the demand, he hung up.”