"How well do you remember the Frank Sullivan murder?" McKenna began.
"Figured that's what you were about." Orville couldn't help his resentment at the younger man's having free reign to dig into the case when his own hands had been tied. “Murder's a major event around here, not like in the big city. In all my years on the force, I had maybe a dozen homicides."
"I suspect this was your most prominent case."
"By far. So you believe Lily Lang was innocent."
"I'm beginning to. And I figured if anyone could help me make up my mind, it would be you."
A little flattered despite the bitterness, he grunted. “I gotta admit Lily's confession made the case easy on us. I've always wondered if it wasn't too damn easy."
"Regret?" McKenna jumped on that.” Then why didn't you hold off until you investigated other suspects?"
"Lily confessed! The highly experienced D.A. believed her. I was the new sheriff."
Orville clenched his jaw at having to defend himself. He was still ticked that he hadn't had the clout to run the investigation the way his gut told him.
"Were you at the crime scene?"
"First to arrive. Lily wasn't herself, granted. She was subdued...like the light had gone outta her. But she told me what she'd done...and handed over the gun nice as you please."
"And that made it too easy?"
"Not that exactly...it's not the only time a murderer stuck around and confessed. Seems a woman's more prone to giving herself up, especially when she's killed a man she loved because he was a threat."
McKenna started. “Are you saying Lily was roughed up?"
Orville shook his head. “Didn't look it. Darn curious, too. Signs of a struggle all over the room. A table knocked over. Broken lamp. Sofa outta line. But Lily...why, she was perfectly dressed, every hair in place...like she was gonna step in front of the cameras any minute...Not a sign of blood on her, neither."
"But Sullivan was shot. Why should Lily have had blood on her?"
"Didn't even think about it then. “Drawing on a memory, he frowned. Couldn't see 'em in that light, but the lab found traces of blood on the gun. “Sullivan's blood. Always did puzzle me how there could be blood on the weapon but not on her hands."
"She could have washed them."
"After wiping the gun clean...or trying to," he agreed. “But why would Lily go to that trouble if she planned to confess anyhow? And why would she claim she'd never left the room after shooting Sullivan...except to make the call from the other parlor, of course."
"You're certain she wiped the weapon clean?"
"Must've, 'cause the technician couldn't find no other prints, only the one set where she was hanging onto the gun when she turned it over to me. Funny thing, though. Whatever she used to wipe the danged thing clean...we never did find hide nor hair of it."
"Did you ask her to explain?"
"Asked her lots of things she wouldn't answer. Just kept on saying she'd killed Frank Sullivan over and over. No details. No motive. No regret."
"Can you remember anything else that didn't make sense?" McKenna asked with relish, as if his juices were flowing.
Orville started. Why should he lay out everything he knew or suspected for some reporter who meant nothing to him? He'd said too much already.
"I'd reckon that was enough to haunt me for a long time afterward, until Lily escaped Dwight, anyhow. Can't say I was sorry to hear she was free."
"One more thing about the night of the murder...after Lily turned herself in, who did she make her one phone call to?"
The question surprised Orville into answering. “Why, no one. Her sister-in-law arrived at the house to see to little Claudia before we took her mama away."
"What about a lawyer?"
"Against my advice, she refused to phone for counsel," he said, growing ticked at himself for continuing to blab. “Said she'd take a court-appointed lawyer. I believe she would've, too, if that husband of hers hadn't insisted on bringing in some hotshot. And him a step away from divorce court. Hiring that big city lawyer was a waste of his good money, though...considering..."
"That Lily wouldn't cooperate in defending herself," McKenna finished.
"If she would've furnished some extenuating circumstances, he mighta been able to get her a reduced sentence."
"So you placed the call to her husband."
"No sir, that I didn't."
"One of your deputies?"
"Not without orders from me. I imagine his sister let Lang know what was going on."
And that was all he was going to say. McKenna could dig for the rest. Orville was looking forward to seeing what a big city reporter could do with the rumors and innuendoes rife in a small town.
SKELLY LEFT THE RETIRED SHERIFF'S modest two-story frame house surrounded by older, grander neighbors with better tended grounds, certain that, before he and Roz were through with their personal investigation, he was going to have his hooks in the story of a lifetime. A damn career maker. The big boys at the network would definitely sit up and take notice.
The bonanza of information he'd never expected to unearth when he'd sought out Galt stunned him.
Self-defense was something he hadn't considered before. How could there have been a struggle with Lily showing no signs of it? And from Galt's description of her appearance...it almost sounded as if she'd prepared herself to give the performance of her life.
Something was wrong there, big time.
A conspiracy of silence surrounded Sullivan's death. The authorities had held back information from the press, while Lily had held back information from the authorities. Why? Had someone with connections in a high place had it in for her? And who had she been trying to protect?
If he'd had any doubts that Lily Lang was innocent of murder, they certainly had vanished, Skelly admitted.
He suspected that Orville Galt harbored a secret guilt in his own participation in the Sullivan case...rather in his decided lack thereof. He'd had plenty of years to forget the details, and yet he hadn't. If only the man would prove cooperative later, when he was putting together the segment for The Whole Story. Skelly could imagine the impact of a televised interview with the retired sheriff.
He picked up his pace, Lang House being only a few blocks away. What was he going to tell Roz? He hadn't wanted her to know he was checking on her grandfather, and Galt certainly hadn't corroborated the old man's story.
Noah had insisted the sheriff, not Hilary, had called him. Why would he have lied? And why had his sister gone along with him? Unless Noah had said the first thing that came to mind and Hilary chose to protect him from whatever truth he was hiding. For Roz's sake, Skelly wished he didn't have to acknowledge the only obvious conclusion he could draw.
That Noah Lang had already arrived in Galena before Frank Sullivan drew his last breath.
HAVING ICED HER FOOT for nearly twenty minutes, Rosalind wavered between worried and impatient. Where was Skelly? He didn't seem the type who would lose himself in Galena's past by taking in its diverse architecture on a foot-tour. Certain he'd chosen to investigate the neighborhood so he would be familiar with his surroundings in case they ran into more trouble, she couldn't believe how long he was taking.
The top floor turret windows would afford her a better view of the blocks adjacent than those on the first floor. She hurried upstairs to her bedroom. Disappointment pricked her when she saw no sign of the man. She whipped away from the windows and began to pace.
The bed reminded Rosalind of Skelly's suggestion that she get some rest, but she was too keyed up to continue doing nothing. Besides, lying against the coverlet's plush folds thinking about him might provoke fantasies she'd rather not have. Even now she imagined she could feel the mattress pressed into the back of her legs as she kissed him...
"No, you don't, Skelly McKenna," she muttered. “Stop sneaking up on me like that."
But what to do with herself? Neither Aunt Hilary nor Grandfather had returned home.
Her gaze wandered the room, stopping at an inside wall. A corner portion was actually a slanted door that would open to a storage area nestled under the eaves. Not having investigated the treasure trove since childhood, she wondered if Lily's things still waited there intact...even as Grandfather had so long ago mandated.
Only one way to find out, she thought, glad to have a distraction. Maybe Lily herself had left some inadvertent clue as to what had prompted her to lie that fateful night.
Why hadn't she thought of this before?
The wall separated easily and the light switch still worked, two bare bulbs illuminating a space that was a dozen feet long but only half as wide, the outer wall being slanted and making it impossible for her to stand upright.
A rod the length of the enclosure still sagged from hanger-upon-hanger of glamorous clothing, all sealed in zipped plastic bags. Boxes of all sizes and descriptions both below and lining a narrow shelf above held more of Lily's possessions. Halfway along the outer wall, a dormer window with a cushioned seat awaited. As a child, she'd spent hour after hour sitting there, sorting through boxes and albums of souvenirs from her grandmother's Hollywood days.
Everything looked exactly as she remembered, as if nothing had been touched in thirty years. But, of course, that was impossible. No dust. The place was obviously cleaned on a regular basis, undoubtedly Grandfather's doing. Heart hurting for him, she suspected he spent too much time alone in here with his beloved's things, immersing himself in the past.
She began by eliminating containers of shoes or other accessories as well as those filled with the movie star memorabilia she'd once been so fond of. What she dragged to the floor space around the window were several plain cardboard cartons, a flowered hatbox holding some loose black and white photographs and a small trunk.
Hatbox first.
Though she'd never done more than take a quick look at these particular photographs before, Rosalind instantly identified them as being a record of her grandmother's growing up years in Galena. Whether faded from age or in soft focus because the camera had been cheap, Lily was nonetheless recognizable because of her silvery hair and tiny mole.
Even as a toddler, she'd charmed the camera. A tomboy at age six or seven, she'd posed at the top of a narrow fence, tongue sticking out boldly at the lens. By the time she was twelve or thirteen, she'd turned self-conscious...yet the camera had gone on loving her. And as a teenager, she'd been absolutely breathtaking. That her clothes were cheap and often worn didn't detract from her natural charisma.
Or from boys being infatuated with her.
Spreading out a number of photographs like a hand of cards, Rosalind more closely examined Lily's companions. The same two dark-haired boys appeared in several shots taken over a period of years, the last of which had probably been taken at a prom. Lily was dancing with one of them – they were obviously caught up in each other romantically by this time – while the second watched on from the sidelines, his expression wistful. She could be wrong, but she thought the loner bore a strong resemblance to Frank Sullivan. As for Lily's dancing partner, he also seemed familiar, though she couldn't quite place him.
Rosalind slipped the photo into her pocket and next sorted through the cardboard cartons, unfortunately finding nothing of interest. She quickly went on to the last item.
The small trunk was filled with keepsakes of a later time. An album of photos recorded the years of Lily's marriage. And of her own mother's childhood. Rosalind contemplated with longing the shots of her grandparents and mother, all so happy together. It seemed that Claudia Lang had been as loving and demonstrative a child as the grown-up Claudia Van Straaten was cool and distant.
What happened to make her change so?
A lump in her throat, Rosalind abandoned the reminders of what she'd missed growing up in a divided household. Despite hearing the muffled sounds of more than one car pulling up outside – her aunt and grandfather must both be home – she picked up a container whose wooden surface was intricately carved with tiny leaves and flowers.
When she tried to open the box, however, it thwarted her. The lid stayed firmly in place, and no matter how thoroughly she looked, she could find no visible latch.
Below, the front door slammed, but Rosalind wasn't ready to give up on the box yet.
The catch had to be hidden, so she ran her fingers along every carved surface, testing here, pressing there, searching for anything that would give. The box got away from her, bouncing off the trunk with a loud thunk. Saving it from hitting the floor, she tried again. She doubled her efforts, finally discovering that one of the tiny carved flowers felt slightly higher than the others.
Though she gave it her full attention, the carving wouldn't push. Nor would it slide in any direction. But, to her satisfaction, it did turn slightly...the subtle twisting movement followed by a click.
The lid popped open to reveal the box's contents, a leather-bound diary, 1963 embossed in gold on its cover.
The year Frank Sullivan died and Lily had been incarcerated.
A thread of triumph surged through Rosalind as she imagined the insights Lily's written thoughts might give her. Before she could even turn back the cover to take a peek, however, she heard her name yelled from below.
"Rosalind, are you home, honey?"
"Yes, Aunt Hilary," she returned. “I'll be down in a minute."
But her aunt's slow tread continued up the stairs. Frustrated, not wanting to share her discovery before she could give it a thorough once-over herself, Rosalind secreted the diary and replaced the wooden box in the trunk. She didn't have enough time to put everything back the way she'd found them, so she hurried from the storage area, making do with switching off the light and closing the door behind her. She left the bedroom even as her red-faced aunt puffed up to the landing.
"I thought I heard you rummaging around, but I didn't see the Thunderbird."
"That's because I left it at a gas station. The brakes needed some adjustment. “An understatement, perhaps, but better a grain of truth than an outright lie.
"Better safe than sorry, especially on these hills."
Her stomach knotting at the memory of the close call, she changed the subject. “I should come down to talk to you and grandfather."
"Noah's not here, honey. He must have gone out while I was at the supermarket."
Curious...Rosalind was certain she'd heard more than one car pull up.” Where is he, then?"
Her aunt glanced away. “He did one of his disappearing acts."
"Again?" Two days in a row?
"He goes off alone for a while when the whim takes him, usually a few times a week. His strike for independence, I guess. Nothing to worry about."
But Hilary herself sounded worried, Rosalind thought. And her aunt was acting as nervous as she had under Skelly's questioning the night before.
So when the older woman started down the stairs, she followed. “I'll help you unpack the groceries."
"You're such a dear. Are you certain I can't convince you to have dinner with us? I'm making your favorite."
"Roast pork and pan-roasted potatoes?" Mouth watering already, Rosalind figured she'd better consult Skelly before committing them in case he felt they needed to be elsewhere. “I'm not sure yet, but as soon as Skelly gets back... “Hearing the downstairs door open again, she didn't finish. “Maybe that's him now."
A breathy Hilary stopped at the second floor landing. “Actually, I believe that's Claudia coming in with more groceries. She arrived a few minutes after you and Skelly left this morning."
"Mother is here? You didn't tell me she was coming. “And why wouldn't her mother have mentioned it? Rosalind had called specifically to let her know what she and Skelly were up to.
"She took me by complete surprise. Said she decided to come at the last minute because she realized she needed a few days of rest and relaxation."
That didn't sound right. Her mother didn't have a spontaneous bone in her body. And she'd always maintained
relaxation was for other people who didn't know what to do with their lives. Besides, she'd been so involved with the details of her upcoming charity event the other night that she'd hardly spared her own daughter a few minutes of her precious time.
No, if her mother were here, the visit had purpose.
Only Rosalind wasn't certain she wanted to know its significance.
SKELLY DECIDED DINNER AT Lang House was a fine idea until he learned that Claudia Van Straaten had arrived unannounced.
Having hoped he could drop some of the information he'd gathered from Orville Galt at the table to see how Noah and Hilary would react, he didn't feel comfortable doing so while Roz's mother was present. He couldn't forget how young Claudia had been at the time of the murder. The tragedy had affected her so deeply that even her psychiatrist couldn't trigger memories her subconscious had repressed.
Or so she'd said.
He also couldn't forget being convinced that she'd lied about what she did or did not remember.
Her unexpected appearance already suspect, Claudia compounded Skelly's distrust when she didn't say a single word to him. She even avoided looking at him directly. Roz wasn't faring much better treatment. It was as if Claudia chose to forget they were present...or at the very least to forget their reason for being here.
Provoking her hostility again would merely upset everyone, so Skelly chose to wait for a more opportune moment to see what he could get from Noah and Hilary.
Roz's grandfather was the one to bring up the investigation.
"So, was your day productive?" Noah asked her halfway through dinner.
"I had an interesting encounter with Diane and Perry Nesmith."
When Roz finished detailing her visit, Noah said, “I told you the widow was a likely candidate. Not that you can prove anything. And what would pointing a finger at her now serve? She'd probably have that stroke her husband must be worried about, and that would be that."
Skelly exchanged a look with Roz. From her expression, he figured she was as baffled as he. While her grandfather maintained Lily was innocent, while he'd included the widow among the possible suspects, he certainly didn't sound as if he really wanted them to do anything about it.
The McKenna Legacy Trilogy Page 31