by Carolyn Hart
The chair opposite me squeaked as he sat. A paper was shoved across the table.
I picked up the sheet, scanned it. Jimmy had found all the addresses for me. “Perfect.”
His chair hitched closer to the table. “Okay, listen. You might want to make notes so you’ll have it straight for the cops.”
Notes are nice. I encouraged students to become proficient notetakers. Unfortunately, the Gazette was built in the era of hermetically sealed windows. “I see that you have notes.”
“I’m leaving them for Joan.”
“That’s fine. I won’t need notes. I wouldn’t be able to get any papers outside until someone opened a door in the morning. But I have a very good memory.”
There was a skeptical silence.
“I required all of my students to memorize ‘Thanatopsis.’ I would not ask of my students more than I could achieve.” I cleared my throat. “To him who in the love of Nature holds / Communion with her invisible forms, she speaks / A various—”
“So you’re the reason I had to memorize that da—” A pause. “But I get your point.” He picked up his notes. “I checked out the Gazette file on Doug Graham, found out a bunch. He belonged to every civic club in town. He hosted a golf tournament every year to raise money for sick kids. That makes him sound like a winner, but he had a six handicap and always ended up paired with some mover and shaker, so it looks like he was hustling clients to me. I got the public records on his divorce. Split what they had. Funny thing is, he got a lot richer the very next year. He bought his big house about six months after the divorce. Plus, he doesn’t pay child support. They’re both over eighteen. I’d guess the kids sided with mom so he blew them off. Might be something there. Then I ran across this story.” He pushed a printout across the table.
I noted the date: October 21, 2014
FANCY MEETING YOU HERE
Lifestyle editor Estelle Luke
Adelaide law partners Doug Graham and Brewster Layton met with a bang Monday morning.
Literally.
At the corner of Country Club Drive and Reverie Lane, a four-way stop, the partners’ cars collided at shortly after 7 a.m. Both men were headed for the offices of Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse, but neither was on his usual route.
An inset photograph pictured the middle of an intersection and a silver Porsche rammed into the right front of a black Toyota SUV. Hefty Doug Graham, a rueful expression on his broad face, stared at his car. Hands thrust into the pockets of his suit, tall, slender Brewster Layton squinted against the sunlight.
Graham told police the accident was his fault. “That’s what happens when you get into a tough lawsuit. I was thinking about a deposition, decided to take a walk in White Deer Park. An early walk helps me figure things out. At the stop sign, I swear I looked but I didn’t see Brewster’s car. I hit the gas pedal and wham! I told Brewster, I’ll take care of the repairs. I’m glad he wasn’t hurt and I’m glad he’s an old friend.” Graham’s big laugh boomed. “I always told Brewster I’d be there when he needed me, but I had no idea how true that would be.”
Layton was leaving the Adelaide Golf and Country Club after an early breakfast. “I saw the car, never realized it was Doug’s. The sun was in my eyes, but I had reached the stop sign first so I started up. I tried to brake when the car came toward me but I wasn’t able to stop in time.”
The impact broke the right front axle of the Layton car. Graham waited until a wrecker arrived to remove Layton’s vehicle, then he drove Layton to their downtown offices in Graham’s car—one old friend giving another a lift.
I tapped the printout. “They had a car wreck.”
“If you believe in that kind of coincidence, you’re nuts.”
“Adelaide’s a small town.” I was impatient. Maybe Jimmy had lost his nose for news. “What are the odds if you have a car wreck you might know the other driver? Or know someone who knows him or her? Or went to school with the driver’s sister? Or—”
“Or maybe you set the crash up in advance. Look where the accident happened. Neither had any usual reason to be on those particular streets at that particular time. What makes the time special? Country Club Drive curls around through some woods and intersects Reverie Lane. Who’s out there at seven in the morning? Maybe some walkers or runners but they’re probably in the park. Maybe somebody going to or coming from the country club. I understand the club has a breakfast buffet to die for but I was never well enough connected to be invited. But there’s no hustle and bustle on that road. Very easy to wait until there are no cars and no runners in view. Let’s look at downtown at seven a.m. Even ass-busting lawyers don’t get to their offices any earlier than seven. If they tried to stage this downtown, there would have been people all over the place. So they cooked up Master Thinker communing at White Deer and Layton having breakfast at the club. That means they could meet up in a secluded area and stage a wreck.”
“If the crash broke the axle of Layton’s car, it had to be a pretty hard impact.”
“Probably a jolt for both of them. But I’ll believe in dancing unicorns wearing tutus before I’ll think this was an accident. So, why the charade? Why was it important for Layton’s car to get smashed and smashed real good?”
I drank several gulps of Dr Pepper. “I’m sure you have an answer.”
“That’s when it gets interesting. At first I thought this was just odd. Then I remembered something else—Megan talking about how Layton and Graham avoided each other.”
I was suddenly attentive. Megan had spoken of the apparent dislike between the two partners.
“According to the Gazette story, they were partners and great chums. We know they aren’t. I kept thinking about the wreck and why would it happen. I went downstairs and went through back issues of the Gazette for the week before the wreck. Check out this story.”
BICYCLIST DEAD AFTER HIT-AND-RUN
Joan Crandall
Goddard senior Alison Terry, 21, was declared dead on arrival at Adelaide General Hospital shortly after 7 p.m. Friday night. According to police, Terry was apparently the victim of a hit-and-run accident on Country Club Drive.
Terry was found by a passing motorist who called 911. The motorist tried unsuccessfully to resuscitate her. The motorist, Jason Field, told officers he saw a smashed bicycle near the side of Country Club Drive. He stopped to investigate and found the college senior unresponsive a few feet from the bicycle.
Police today said Terry died of a broken neck. Investigators believe Terry’s bicycle was struck from behind by a car traveling east on Country Club Drive. Police believe the right side of the car would have suffered damage from the impact. Police are alerting local body shops to report any car brought in with damage if the driver cannot submit a copy of an accident report.
According to police, the bicycle had a red warning reflector on the rear fender. Terry was wearing a white T-shirt and should have been visible to a motorist. Moreover, the bicycle was equipped with a small battery-powered light on the front fender.
Investigating officer T. B. Drake said the driver may have come around a curve and not seen the bicyclist. However, Officer Drake emphasized the driver could not have been unaware of the impact.
Police Chief Sam Cobb said leaving the scene of an accident that results in a death is a felony and the office of the district attorney will be prepared to file charges if the driver is apprehended.
Terry was an education major from Sallisaw. Jan Bliss, the chair of the education department, said she has spoken with Terry’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Terry. Professor Bliss remembers Terry as an outstanding student, eager to begin her career as a teacher. A memorial service will be scheduled at the Goddard Student Union next week.
Classmates plan a candle vigil at 7 o’clock tonight in the gardens at Rose Bower, the extensive estate which adjoins the campus and is the site of many college functions.
Police are asking anyone with information about the car or driver to contact them. The police declined to say if they have any leads to the driver’s identity.
I felt a wash of sadness. A life ended much too soon. When bad things happen to good people, those who grieve mournfully wonder why. Even as a Heavenly resident, I have no answer. I know only that all who die, whether just beginning, in their prime, or withered by age, are surrounded by glory and there is fullness and completion of all their possibilities. Heaven—but I must hew to Precept Seven: “Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, ‘Time will tell.’” I asked, though I rather thought I knew the answer, “Was the driver found?”
“No. Here’s the kicker. I did a word search on Layton. The Gazette runs all the obituaries on the same page. That page also has a column on one side: ‘In Memoriam.’ On the date of the hit-and-run, October 17, 2014, here’s one of the memorial tributes.” A paper rose in the air. He read aloud:
“‘In Memory of Marie Denise Layton. January 3, 1955, to October 17, 2013. Your smile lighted my life. The touch of your hand brought comfort. The sound of your voice sings in my heart. The days are gray without you. I love you—’”
Jimmy’s voice slowed.
“‘—forever. Brewster.’”
Forever dropped like an autumn leaf. Jimmy understood a man who loved and still loved. “People—even good people—make mistakes. But”—Jimmy was stern—“he shouldn’t have run away from the accident. I think he probably stopped and got out and the girl was dead. You don’t linger with a broken neck. Even so, he would have stayed but I’ll bet he was drunk as a skunk. The anniversary of his wife’s death.”
Jimmy slapped the sheet on the table and now he talked fast. “Anyway, the cops should find out where he was tonight.”
Early morning sunlight slanted into Sam Cobb’s office through the wide windows that overlooked Main Street. My night at Rose Bower had been quite comfortable, and breakfast at Lulu’s, as always, delicious. I expected Sam to arrive any minute. I was sure he was already well aware of last night’s homicide and familiar with the circumstances.
I stood in front of his old-fashioned blackboard that required chalk. No whiteboards for Sam despite pressure from the mayor. Sam had gruffly told her he used chalk when he taught high school algebra and he would use chalk until they pried a stub out of his cold, dead fingers. The Honorable Neva Lumpkin wanted to jettison Sam right along with the blackboard. Lurking in the background, eager to be chief, was her favorite detective, Howie Harris.
I wrote swiftly:
October 17, 2014—Anniversary of the death of Marie Layton
October 17, 2014—Hit-and-run accident with fatality
October 20, 2014—Car accident at Country Club Drive and Rev—
“You’re back.” A click as the door closed.
I turned, chalk still in one hand.
“Funny thing.” His tone was conversational. “Hanging chalk makes me feel like a kid and it’s midnight and my folks are out and the cellar stairs creaked.”
As I would point out to Wiggins, it was he who set forth the Precepts, and Precept Six was clear: “Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.”
I immediately swirled present. I was feeling festive and chose an embroidered blue tunic, an elegant flower pattern with matching designs on the lower sleeves, white slacks, and blue strapless heels. Very high. I settled on a straight chair in front of Sam’s desk, crossed one leg over the other, beamed at him.
Sam is a sturdy bear of a man, big head with grizzled black hair, large strong face with bold features, burly shoulders. He wouldn’t know fashion if he met it on a runway, but I saw a flicker of admiration in his brown eyes as he settled in his large desk chair. “Bailey Ruth.” He gave me a welcoming nod, but I saw concern in his dark eyes. “Everything gets—” He paused.
I assumed he was recasting his sentence. Had he started to say, Everything gets screwed up . . . or Everything gets a little strange . . . or Everything gets turned upside down . . .
Sam cleared his throat, started over. “I thought we had a simple case. Boss threatens to fire young lawyer. Young lawyer shoots him.”
I started to speak, but he held up a large hand. “The evidence is compelling. Text on Doug Graham’s phone orders Megan Wynn to show up or he will pursue termination. If there’s a handy explanation, she couldn’t seem to find it. She declined to explain. Plus, a neighbor across the street puttered out onto his porch a little before nine. He was sitting in the dark on a screened-in porch, sipping a rum and Coke, enjoying the cicadas—”
I remembered wondrous moonlit nights, swinging slowly in a big hammock with Bobby Mac, listening to cicadas sing the song of summer, smelling the scent of fresh-mown grass, Adelaide at its happiest.
“—with a clear view of the Graham house. A car stopped at the front curb, an old yellow Thunderbird. A tall, lanky guy walked up to the front porch, jabbed the bell, waited, rang again, waited, rang, finally gave up. As that car pulled away, another car arrived, turned into the driveway, parked behind Graham’s Porsche.”
“The murderer came from the golf course.”
Sam’s gaze was hopeful. “Who was it?”
I waved a hand in airy dismissal of any suggestion I’d been on the scene. “I didn’t see the murderer. I know this is what happened because Megan Wynn found Doug Graham dead.”
“Were you there when she found him?”
I regretted that I’d been restless and left Megan’s apartment, seeking Jimmy. “I can’t vouch for the actual moment.”
“Spell it out.”
He listened, gave me a probing look. “You landed at the Graham house while she was scrubbing blood from her hands. And you think she’s innocent?”
“There was no weapon in the room.”
Sam shrugged. “She’d already run outside and hidden it.”
I couldn’t prove she hadn’t, though Megan was much too fastidious to ignore blood on her hands. “Why did she have blood on her hands?”
“You tell me.”
“She was trying to see if he was alive and her touch caused his body to fall sideways and when she tried to prevent that fall, blood got on her hands and blouse. If she shot him, why would she want to see if she could help him?”
Sam wasn’t impressed. “Maybe she wanted to make sure he was dead.”
“The timing isn’t right. Do you think she shot him, ran outside and hid the gun, came back and approached the body? Why come back?”
Sam’s voice was cool. “Maybe she wanted to get at his cell phone and that’s how she got in a mess with the body.”
It was quite likely Jimmy accompanied Megan to the house. But if Sam was uneasy with floating chalk, I didn’t think introducing a dead reporter as a witness would be pleasing to him. Or convincing. Especially if he learned Jimmy adored Megan.
I tried another tack. “Someone crept into the den and blew off the back of Doug’s head. You will agree that makes the murder premeditated. Would a smart person drive up to his house in a distinctive old Dodge and park it like a tour bus in the driveway?”
His thick black brows beetled.
I took this as a sign he was open to persuasion. “It’s obvious from the facts that the murderer used a stealthy approach, which wouldn’t include parking on the driveway to slip into the den where a man was sitting in a leather chair watching a ball game. I’m positive Graham never heard anyone approach, had no idea he was in danger, knew nothing until a bullet slammed into his skull. Further, the text to Megan and the nine-one-one call were designed to have her in the house when the police arrived.”
Sam’s stare was intent. �
��You think he was already dead when the text was sent to Wynn from his cell?”
I was patient. “Obviously.”
His eyes narrowed. “If that’s right, he was dead a few minutes before nine, then the killer used his cell to text Megan Wynn and the house line to dial nine-one-one, report a murder.”
I gave him an approving smile. “Exactly. The murderer then exited through the back, crossed the terrace to the golf course, and followed a cart path to a street where a car was parked.”
Sam looked dour. “Glad you know what happened. Where’s the proof?”
“Megan is innocent.”
“You say.”
“I do.” I was firm. “You need to look elsewhere.” I was pleased to know I was making his path forward much clearer.
I would like to say Sam was energized by my pronouncement. Instead, he shook his head, muttered to himself. I might have caught the word screwy and heard a weary looked so simple.
“Okay.” Deep breath. “You claim—”
“I don’t claim.” I was sweetly reasonable. “I’m certain.”
“You may be certain, but I can’t ignore a black-and-white case. And the mayor’s already after Wynn.”
“The mayor?”
“You got it. She called me this morning. Sam, I’ll hold a news conference—”
His imitation of Neva Lumpkin’s supercilious tone was perfection.
“—and announce that the city of Adelaide once again exhibits its excellence in protecting its citizens with the prompt arrest of a murderess—”
The door squeaked open.
Sam stopped in midsentence.
As I disappeared, the mayor burst inside. She hurtled toward Sam’s desk, much too excited to notice dissipating colors.
Sam heaved himself to his feet, his face smooth and unreadable.
Neva Lumpkin was a sturdy (to be kind) middle-aged woman with too much blonde hair, vivid makeup, and an imposing bust unfortunately emphasized by a tight-fitting orange jersey blouse. This morning she exuded good humor, not an attitude I associated with her.