by Sherry Lewis
The glasses bothered him. He lifted one and frowned at the ring it left on the wood. Joan must have left the house before the party was over or surely she would have cleared away the mess.
He could hear the conversation in the next room more clearly now, so he moved closer to the door and held his breath. Enos was speaking.
“. . . cause of death hasn’t been determined at this time.”
Glass clinked. Liquid splashed. Someone spoke and Fred recognized Brandon Cavanaugh’s voice. “I appreciate your concern, Enos. I can’t tell you how horrible I feel. I think I’m in shock, even though I knew it was just a matter of time.”
Fred scowled but bit his tongue and hoped Brandon didn’t mean that the way it sounded.
“What do you mean by that?” Enos asked. He didn’t sound suspicious or outraged, but Fred gave him the benefit of the doubt, assuming he’d done that on purpose.
“We were living on a tightrope here,” Brandon said. “Nobody could possibly have guessed how it was the last few months—” his voice broke off, choked with sobs.
Tony interrupted. “Don’t, Brandon. It’s not your fault. You did everything you could.”
Silence dragged out for a while before Enos finally spoke again. “When did you last see your wife?”
“Late last night—or I should say early this morning. We had . . . guests. You can probably tell just by looking at this place.”
“And what time would that have been?”
“Dinner was at seven.”
“I meant,” Enos said gently, “what time was it when you saw Joan last?”
A pause. A deep sigh. “One o’clock, maybe. I don’t know. We came down to greet the guests together. She seemed fine at first . . . happy and smiling. But even before dinner was served she snapped. You never knew what was going to set her off. What was fine with her one day would send her over the edge the next. She moped around here for a while after dinner and then she finally disappeared. I’m afraid I’ve become so used to her irrational behavior, it never dawned on me that she’d actually do something this time.”
Irrational behavior? Hogwash! Fred had never known Joan to act irrationally a day in her life.
“What do you mean ‘this time’?” Enos asked.
Someone set a hard object on a table. “You might as well know,” Brandon said. He sounded sad, Fred thought. And resigned. “Joan threatened suicide several times over the past few years. We didn’t talk about it outside the family. We tried to keep it quiet for her sake, especially since she always snapped out of it. I didn’t think she was any worse than normal last night. And I never thought she’d actually kill herself.” Brandon gave a loud sniff and choked back a sob. “I guess I was wrong, wasn’t I?”
three
Fred bit back the protest that rose in his throat, but for a moment he feared that he’d given himself away. Any second now, Enos or Brandon would come to the door and discover him hiding there. Then what would he say?
The idea of Joan committing suicide was ridiculous. You only had to take one look at Joan’s body to know she hadn’t done that to herself, even if she had been the irrational sort of woman Brandon described. Which she wasn’t. He had half a mind to step out of his hiding place and say so, but he didn’t.
After a moment of stunned silence inside the living room, Brandon’s voice rose again. “I feel so guilty. I stopped listening to her, I’m afraid. But I’d heard it all so often. She struggled with a lot of things, I guess. At first I bought into it, but a few months ago I finally decided that the whole suicide thing was just a ploy for attention . . . sympathy.” He paused, sniffled.
Someone murmured something. Well if that didn’t beat all. Surely Enos didn’t believe that bunch of nonsense.
Fred inched his way closer to the open doorway so he could see into the room with one eye. Brandon, tall and dark and still wearing his trousers and shirt from the night before—they looked as if they’d been slept in, anyway—stood before a large plate-glass window, his head down. A dozen feet behind him Enos stood, hat in hand.
Tony was there too, standing against the far wall beside the fireplace. Good. At least he wouldn’t come up on Fred without warning. Slowly, Tony left his niche and walked toward Brandon. He put one arm around Brandon’s shoulders and shook him ever so slightly, as if urging him to hold up under the strain.
That done, he pulled a small brown bottle from his pants pocket and looked it over for a moment without speaking. “I guess there’s no reason to hide this any longer,” he said. “I didn’t want to worry you, Brandon. But now—” He held the bottle toward Enos. “I found this on the bathroom floor this morning . . . empty.”
Enos looked startled and the sadness on Brandon’s face deepened. Enos reached for the bottle, studied it for a moment, and finally looked up again, a question etched on his face.
“Her sleeping pills,” Tony said quietly.
Brandon sagged against his cousin and murmured something under his breath that Fred couldn’t quite catch. Tony bolstered him again and said to Enos, “This is very difficult for the family, Sheriff. Would you mind saving the rest of your questions for later?”
“Just one more for today,” Enos said. “The rest can wait. What was Joan upset about?”
Brandon shook his head. “She wouldn’t talk to me about it. I never knew if she was upset with me or with somebody else—or just the world in general.”
“It’s like Brandon said,” Tony added, “anything could set her off.”
“There must have been something,” Enos said. “Money, health . . .”
“Not that I know of,” Tony said. He glanced at Brandon then looked pointedly at Enos. “I really think Brandon’s had enough, Sheriff. He’s terribly upset already, and we still have to tell Madison about her mother.”
Enos gave a stiff nod. “I think that’ll do for now. If you think of anything I should know, give me a call.” He took a step toward the door then paused. “I ought to let you know, Brandon, the county coroner will insist on doing an autopsy.”
Both heads jerked up, but Tony spoke first. “An autopsy? Why?”
“It’s routine in cases like this where there’s no obvious cause of death. That and your belief that she may have committed suicide . . .”
“Is that really necessary?” Brandon said in a near whisper.
“I’m afraid so. It’s the only way to know what happened to her.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea at all,” Tony said. “I wouldn’t authorize it if I were you, Brandon.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Really, Sheriff, this is difficult enough on everyone concerned. I don’t see why you’d want to add an autopsy to what we have to face going forward.”
Enos settled his hat on his head. “I understand, Tony, but I’m afraid there’s no choice in the matter. Here on Colorado, an autopsy is required by law in all cases of suspected suicide. The results can take anywhere from ten days to two weeks, so give some thought to arranging for a memorial service to take place before the results are in.”
Brandon looked surprised. “That long?”
“But the pills—” Tony protested. “Surely—”
Fred gave a silent snort. That pill bottle didn’t mean a blasted thing.
Enos looked sympathetic, but to Fred’s relief he didn’t back down. “Like I said, it’s routine. And it can easily take that long to run all the necessary tests, especially where there are no obvious signs to tell us what happened. An empty bottle doesn’t prove that she actually took the pills. But if she did and then wandered into the lake, it’ll show up. Until then, you ought to think about what arrangements you’d like to make. You won’t want to wait around for the—for her to be released before you hold her funeral.”
Brandon shook his head and crossed to a small bar against the back wall. Fumbling with a decanter, he poured a heavy-handed shot of whiskey into a thick glass.
“Do you need help contacting family?” Enos asked.
Brandon shook his head and lifted the glass to his lips. “She didn’t have much family,” he said. Both her parents are dead.” His voice faltered and once again Tony stepped in.
“Her sister’s the only one we need to find, but I’ll call her. No need for you to worry about that.”
Sister? Fred’s ears perked up. In ten years he’d never heard Joan say anything about a sister. No sister had ever come to visit. In fact, now that he thought about it, Joan had never had anyone to visit. If she had, Fred would have known. Strangers in Cutler didn’t go unnoticed.
He thought of his own kids—so close, all of them. If one of them died, the others would be devastated. His insides twisted in sympathy for Joan’s sister. With no other family to lean on, she’d have a hard time with the news.
Enos looked puzzled enough to convince Fred he hadn’t known about a sister either. “Can I. . . ?”
Tony adjusted his collar and waved off the question. He was a taller, darker, better looking version of Brandon. Just now, the expression on his face revealed a family resemblance Fred had never really noticed before. They both had the same thick, black eyebrows set above narrow, dark eyes and the same wide mouth filled with straight, too-white teeth. But where Tony’s features were almost sharp, Brandon’s had been softened around the edges.
“No problem, Sheriff. Last we heard, the sister is with some advertising firm in San Francisco. She and Joan lost touch years ago, but I’m sure we can find her. If we run into trouble, we’ll let you know.” He produced a wan smile. “Look, I’ve got to check on the old man, so if we could finish this later—”
Fred bit back an exclamation of dismay and backed up sharply.
He could only hear the clipped tone of Enos’s voice. “Old man?”
“Yeah. He came in to use the bathroom and I haven’t seen him come out. Didn’t I hear he had a heart attack or something a little while ago? I wouldn’t want him to keel over in there. That’s the last thing we need.”
Fred turned and hot-footed it back to the bathroom but only managed to reach the staircase as Tony came out of the living room. Immediately, Fred strode toward him, trying to look relieved. “There you are! I wanted to thank you. You don’t know how desperate things can be when you reach my age.” Just then Enos appeared behind Tony, his face rigid with anger. Fred tried his best to look apologetic. “It was an emergency. Couldn’t wait.” He lowered his voice and confided, “Prostate trouble.”
Tony turned away, fighting a smile. Fred, warming to his part, pretended outrage. “Don’t you laugh young man. It’ll happen to you one day. I read somewhere that every man will have trouble that way if he lives long enough.”
He was just getting started, but Enos stepped forward and grabbed him by the arm. His grasp was a little too rough but Fred didn’t mind. The end justified the means.
Enos apologized to Tony and shook hands with Brandon, who’d come to the door to see what was going on. Without loosening his grip, Enos ushered Fred outside and propelled him all the way to the truck where he locked Fred inside. He stormed around to the driver’s side and settled himself behind the steering wheel.
“What in the. . .” he began, then shook his head. He pulled angrily on the gearshift, jammed the truck into reverse and again backed up too quickly. “Prostate trouble? Really Fred?”
“I’m an old man.”
“You promised me that you’d stay in the truck.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” Fred pointed out. “It got to be very uncomfortable. I don’t have the control I used to.”
Enos glowered. “I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Well you don’t think I went in there on purpose, do you? I used the bathroom—that’s why I went inside.”
Enos stared at him as if trying to decide whether or not to believe him. Finally he shook his head and threw the truck into drive. “How much did you hear?”
“About what?”
“Come on—how much did you hear?”
Fred took a moment to size up his options before he answered. He didn’t want to actually lie to Enos. They’d been friends too long. “I heard enough. Too much. You don’t believe them do you?”
“I’ll wait to see what the coroner has to say.”
Fred snorted.
“The way I see it,” Enos said, “there are two possibilities—accident or suicide.”
“You’re leaving one out.”
Enos cut a quick glance at him. “Don’t you even hint at that to anybody but me.”
“What are you going to do, ignore it?”
“No comment.”
“You don’t believe all that stuff about sleeping pills do you? Even if the coroner finds traces of pills in her system, it doesn’t mean she took them willingly. Somebody could have forced them on her.”
Enos’s voice took on a pained quality, an edge that Fred recognized as desperation. “That’s exactly why I wanted you to stay in the truck. You heard one thing—that you weren’t supposed to hear in the first place—and your imagination’s getting away from you. Why can’t you just admit that it’s possible—no, it’s probable—that Joan Cavanaugh died exactly the way her husband says she did?”
“Because she didn’t.”
As they reached the highway, Enos brought the truck to a complete stop. He shifted into park and turned in his seat to face Fred. “I don’t like what you pulled up there. I just want you to know that. You’re up to something, and I don’t like that either. I’m warning you right now that you’d better leave this whole thing alone.”
Fred sighed. “Don’t get all excited. All I did was go to the bathroom.”
“I mean it! I’m not warning you as a friend. Keep your nose out of it.”
Enos had become entirely too excitable since he stopped smoking. Fred only wanted to clear up a detail or two, get things straight in his own mind. After all, it wasn’t his fault he’d been dragged into this business. He hadn’t asked to stumble across a dead body when he set out on his walk this morning. But he had, and now he couldn’t get the picture of Joan’s lifeless body out of his head. So what did Enos expect him to do? Go home to watch the television and pretend it hadn’t happened?
Enos’s stony expression answered the question for him. That’s exactly what he expected, and he waited, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, for Fred to agree.
Fred smiled. “I won’t get in your way,” he said in his most reassuring voice. But this time the lines on Enos’s face didn’t ease as he put the truck into gear and pulled onto the highway. Leaning back against the headrest, Fred watched the trees blur. Enos worried him. He’d get old before his time if he didn’t learn to relax.
In the distance, the lake shimmered under the pale sun and Fred thought of Joan again. He pictured her body floating on the lake’s surface this morning and remembered the look on her face when he turned her body over. Suicide? A chill ran down his spine. He’d never believe that poor woman had killed herself. No matter what Enos said or what Brandon Cavanaugh tried to make them believe, as far as Fred was concerned there could be only one explanation.
Murder.
four
Two evenings later, Fred dug through the plastic sacks in his cupboard, searching in vain for a few slices of bread. He probably ought to find something else for dinner, but nothing sounded as appetizing as bread and milk. He had his mind set on it.
When his search failed to turn up what he wanted, he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only a little past seven, he realized with a smile. He had plenty of time to walk to Lacey’s for a loaf before the store closed.
After shrugging into his coat, he shut the door behind him and locked it. Margaret had been nosing around ever since he found Joan’s body in the lake. He didn’t want her getting inside while he was gone. A cold wind blew into the valley so he pulled the collar to his ears and crossed the street. Leaves skittered across the road and all around him trees moved, their heavy branches sighing in protest. Somewhere in the dist
ance a door slammed and a dog barked.
Fred walked as quickly as he could, but the changing seasons always aggravated his arthritis. His legs, still suffering from his plunge into the icy lake, complained against the rapid movement. To make matters worse, he hadn’t slept well the last couple of nights. He’d doze off for an hour or two and then suddenly find himself wide awake. Tonight he felt bone tired and gritty-eyed.
And then there was the strange feeling of apprehension that had plagued him since he’d found Joan. It was affecting him in unexpected ways. Even his neighborhood felt different to him—as if Cutler had lost its innocence. Someone had committed murder less than a mile away from where he stood right that moment. Fred wondered whether he’d ever feel the same again.
When rapid footsteps sounded behind him, Fred turned a little too quickly for comfort, not certain just who he expected to see. Shadows growing out over the shoulder of the road blocked his view so he stepped into the cover of darkness and peered into the night. “Who’s that?”
A muffled gasp sounded before the Kirkham boy stepped into the moonlight. “Just us, Mr. Vickery.”
The boy was no older than ten. He held his little sister—still a baby in Fred’s book—by the hand. In the dark their wide eyes and round faces made them look even younger than usual.
Feeling a little foolish for letting them startle him, Fred moved out of the shadows. “What on earth are the two of you doing out alone this time of night?”
“Mom had to work late,” the boy said, “so we had dinner at the Jacksons’.”
The Jacksons? Gracious sakes, they lived clear on the other side of town! “And they let you walk home alone?”
“It’s okay,” the little girl assured him. “We do it all the time.”
Maybe so, but they wouldn’t be doing it tonight. It was far too late for anyone’s children to be wandering the streets on their own, even in Cutler.