The Fred Vickery Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Fred Vickery Mysteries)

by Sherry Lewis

  Kate looked startled by his sudden appearance. In the chill from the open door, she shivered and crossed her arms across her chest.

  Fred closed the door and wiped his feet while he studied her. She wore summer clothes—a flimsy blouse and pants that wouldn’t even think of cutting the cold against her legs. “You’re going to need warmer clothes than those,” he warned. “Didn’t you bring anything else?”

  She shook her head, but assured him, “I’m fine. Warm enough.”

  “I’ll find you a sweater to put on,” he said anyway. “Maybe that’ll help.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound as challenging to him this morning.

  He ignored her and moved stiffly down the hallway to his bedroom. It took only a moment to find Phoebe’s sweater, which he offered Kate.

  Kate shook her head when he handed it to her, but he shoved it at her again and at last she relented and pulled it on over her blouse.

  One problem solved. “Hungry?” Fred asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “Well, you’ve got to eat. Got to keep up your strength.” He led the way into the kitchen, a little surprised that she actually followed him. He dug eggs and bacon from the refrigerator, got out a loaf of bread and set to work. Scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes and toast with butter and jam—she’d feel better if she ate well.

  He stirred the eggs in the pan and asked casually over his shoulder, “You’re still planning to leave town this morning, are you?”

  “Yes.” The hostility had grown back into her voice.

  “Don’t you think you ought to stay—at least until the funeral?”

  “Why does it concern you so much?”

  Fred shrugged and looked back at the pan. What was that saying Sarah brought home from high school a while back? Kate needed an attitude adjustment.

  As if trying to justify her behavior, Kate spoke again. “I have an important presentation at the end of next month. I can’t afford to be away from the office for long.”

  “I see.”

  She shifted around from foot to foot behind him. Hoping he’d unsettled her a little, he let her stew a little longer before he said, “Well, you’re right, I guess. Whatever it is you do, it must be pretty important.”

  She ignored that and justified her choice with, “There’s no reason for me to stay.”

  He waved a spoon at her, dripping egg on the floor. “Other than your sister’s funeral, you mean.”

  “I won’t be going to her funeral.”

  “Well of course you will,” Fred said. “You can’t refuse to go to your own sister’s funeral. What kind of talk is that?” He let that hang between them for a moment and then said, “You must have a lot of questions about how she died. And why.”

  Kate raised her eyes and Fred saw anger stirring in them. Well, good. He wanted to tap some emotion and at this point, he didn’t care which one. “I don’t blame you for wanting to get the answers before you head back,” he said, turning back to the stove. “No, indeed. I suppose you’ll want to look into things. Ask around. Can’t blame you, really.”

  “I don’t intend—”

  He kept right on talking, ignoring the interruption. “—I guess if it was me, I’d want to understand why everybody thinks she killed herself. Unless you don’t really believe Brandon’s story about the suicide . . .” He stirred the eggs vigorously. “Can’t blame you one bit for raising hell until he gives you the answers.”

  “Brandon?” Her voice held contempt.

  “Sure. I got to thinking last night after you went to bed—maybe I’m just an old fool thinking there’s more to the story than he’s telling. I don’t know why he’d hold anything back. And he’s the one who’d know about Joan and what went on before she died—isn’t he? If he says she’d threatened suicide before. . .”

  “Mr. Vickery—”

  “Fred. No, I understand. Absolutely. You’re one-hundred percent satisfied Joan killed herself. And maybe you’re right.”

  He risked a glance over his shoulder and caught her staring at him uncertainly.

  “You don’t believe Brandon’s story,” she said.

  Fred breathed a sigh of relief. At least she was listening. “Well, now, I didn’t at first—” he said, trying not to smile.

  “But you do now?”

  “Well . . . Not exactly. I found a couple of things this morning that make me wonder.”

  She didn’t ask about his finds, but she did ask, “Just how well did you know Joan?”

  “Fairly well, I guess. Nice lady, I always thought.”

  “And you don’t believe she committed suicide.”

  He turned down the heat on the stove and crossed the room. “I just don’t understand why. It’s going to take some convincing to make me believe she had a reason for dying when she had such a good reason for living.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Her daughter.”

  Astonishment flickered across Kate’s face but her mask slipped back into place so quickly Fred wondered if he’d really seen her reaction. She stared at the spatula in his hand as if the universe suddenly revolved around it, but he knew she didn’t really see it. She pushed her chair away from the table and tried to stand, but she stumbled a little and Fred suspected she hadn’t known about Joan’s little girl.

  He put a hand over hers on the table. “You didn’t know about the child?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters!”

  “No. Joan had no reason to tell me about it. And anyway, what could I have done about it if I had known?”

  “You could have come to be with her when the baby came. Spent holidays. Sent presents.”

  Rolling her eyes, Kate tried to move away from the table. “Please, spare me the lecture on family relations.”

  If anyone needed a lecture, it was the young woman standing across from him. “The little girl is about four years old, I think. Not old enough for school, I know that much. Cute little thing—long blonde hair and dark eyes. She looks a lot like her mother.”

  Kate’s eyes flickered toward him uncertainly. Sensing an advantage, he pressed home his point. “She’s a sweetheart. Once you see her, you’ll—”

  “I have no intention of seeing her.”

  “Not see her? But she’s your niece! You have to see her. Her name’s Madison and she’s going to need you now.”

  Kate jerked her hand from beneath his and crossed to the door. “I don’t want to see her.”

  This wasn’t going the way he’d planned, but he wasn’t ready to give up on her. “Sit back down,” he grumbled. “Your breakfast’s ready.”

  Reluctantly, she came back to the table and ate a little. Really, she spent most of the time pushing food around on her plate. Fred cleared his plate quickly and started to clean up. He stacked plates, scraped leftovers and gathered silverware, all the while chafing at her stubbornness, her absolute refusal to budge.

  Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he said, “I don’t know why you like to pretend you’re so heartless. I heard you crying last night, so don’t tell me you’re not upset. But for some reason you think you’ve got to sit here today and act like you don’t care about either of them. Why do you do that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  His temper flared. “Well, let me tell you something, young lady. Your sister didn’t commit suicide and I was counting on you to help me prove it. Don’t you think you owe her that much?”

  Her lip curled. “Tell me why you think I owe her anything at all.”

  “Because she was your sister. Period. I don’t know what happened between you two and I don’t care. Whatever it was, it’s time for you to put it aside.”

  “What makes you think she didn’t kill herself? Exactly. Tell me exactly and don’t play games with me.”

  “Her face. There was fear in her eyes. And a bruise on her neck.”

  “So? Maybe she was afraid because she got o
ut in the lake too far and couldn’t save herself. Maybe she. . .I don’t know. Maybe she bumped into something and got the bruise that way.”

  Fred shook his head. “No. This was different. Look, I was in the war, Second World War. I saw men die and I saw fear, but this was different. There was something out there I can’t describe, a feeling that something was terribly wrong. I went back out there this morning. There’s not one place she could have gone into the lake on her own. Do you know what that means? Her footprints aren’t anywhere by the lake, but there’s someone else’s footprints there. I’m pretty sure they belong to a big man, or someone carrying something heavy.”

  Kate stared at him for a long moment. “Are you saying—”

  “Yes! It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all blasted morning!”

  “—that you think she was murdered?”

  “Yes!”

  “That’s insane!”

  “Why? It’s more insane to think she killed herself. Joan wasn’t the type to just decide life was difficult one morning and trot off to the lake. I saw her with that little girl of hers many times. She was a good mother. Always put her daughter first. I know she’d never willingly leave her.”

  Kate dropped into her chair and stared at him. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You can’t possibly believe anything else.” She didn’t speak, so he gave her a verbal nudge. “Let me come with you today. Let me introduce you to a few people in town. You ask them if they thought Joan could have done what Brandon says she did. Don’t take my word for it.” He grasped her hand tightly again, as if by force of will he could make her agree.

  At last, slowly, she nodded her head. “All right. I’ll talk to a couple of people. I don’t know why I’m even listening to you. I’m probably making a terrible mistake.”

  “But you’re not,” he assured her. “I guarantee it.”

  “One day,” she bargained. “I’ll stay one day. That should be long enough to talk to the bank about the provisions of my father’s trust and do whatever it is you want me to do. But I’m leaving tomorrow, so don’t ask me to stay any longer.”

  She left him standing alone in the kitchen, aware only that he had twenty-four hours—or less—to prove his case. The task loomed impossibly large before him. Maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Maybe Enos had been right all along and he should stay out of the investigation. Maybe he should just admit right now that he couldn’t do it and let Kate drive back to Denver and the airport after she went to the bank.

  Then again, maybe he should think of a contingency plan to keep her in town just in case he couldn’t meet the deadline.

  seven

  In twenty minutes a relatively healthy person can walk from one end of Cutler’s Main Street to the other. Most of the old-timers travel everywhere on foot. The younger generation, those in their thirties and forties, don’t walk anywhere. Fred had known Margaret to drive two blocks to Lacey’s General Store for a gallon of milk. Ridiculous. Nothing wrong with her legs.

  Fred went very few places that required him to get the Buick out of the garage, but he started it three times a week anyway, just to keep it running well. A visit to Silver City Bank was not one of the places he allowed himself to drive.

  He led Kate by the elbow, steering her one block down Lake Front and across Main to the north side of the street. She shivered at his side wearing only Phoebe’s old sweater under his fishing coat. Why she’d come to mountain country this time of year without a coat of her own, he couldn’t understand. Why, even in the summer the nights could chill a person to the bone. By autumn, even the days could be frigid.

  She’d wanted to go to the bank, but she acted put out that Fred made her walk the four blocks from his house. No matter. She’d get over it. After the discussions he’d had with Margaret about unnecessary driving, he wouldn’t be seen driving no further than to the bank from his house. Not for anybody.

  Fred wanted Kate to talk to people in town, but he didn’t look forward to this visit to the bank. Silver City Bank meant Logan Ramsey. And Fred didn’t get along with Logan Ramsey.

  Logan had been a stubborn, petty little boy who’d grown up to be a greedy, petty man. Fred had never liked him. Logan had been president of the bank for only five years, and in that short amount of time he’d managed to drive the bank steadily downhill. More than once Fred had considered moving his account to the First National in Granby.

  Ramsey hadn’t been blessed with the sense God gave a goose. He didn’t have one lick of common sense. He’d never shown an interest in anything except making money and he hadn’t even been successful at that. His wife, the spoiled daughter of a wealthy businessman from Denver, had the brains of a goat and the voice of a screech owl. But Ramsey adored her, a trait Fred used on occasion to prove his opinion of Ramsey’s mental agility.

  Main Street seemed unusually quiet for a Thursday morning. Two cars were parked in front of Lacey’s and three or four clustered around the Bluebird Cafe at the east end of town, but he couldn’t see anybody outside. Humph! It wasn’t that cold.

  Fred glanced at his watch—going on eleven. Half the day wasted and they were just now heading toward the bank. They could have left the house by nine-thirty if Kate hadn’t decided she needed to call her office. Long distance. Then she’d asked him for another two cups of coffee and looked through the yellow pages for a place in town with a fax machine. Then, and only then, had he gotten her out the door.

  She pulled her arm out of Fred’s grasp and moved slightly ahead. Slow as molasses all morning, and now all of a sudden she wanted to hurry. Fred increased his pace with some effort and caught her just as she reached the bank. He reached in front of her and held the door. It earned him nothing more than a scowl that ended in a look of disdain as she viewed the bank. Two teller windows, a tiny lobby, and a couple of offices at the back, one of which belonged to Logan Ramsey.

  Fred waved to Pete Scott’s new wife behind the first teller window—he never could remember her first name—and moved to the back of the building. The door to Ramsey’s office gaped open, revealing the bank’s president behind an ornate desk too large for the tiny room.

  Ramsey struggled to his feet as they approached. His pink striped shirt stretched tightly across his stomach as he extended a plump hand to Fred and then to Kate before dropping back into his seat. He studiously arranged a small stack of file folders, leaned his elbow on it and beamed at them.

  Funny that he looked so old. Fred still thought of him as a kid. A pudgy kid with a puffy face who’d turned into a swollen, corpulent man. Ramsey’s head, shiny and glistening in the light that spilled over his shoulder from the window, was only saved from complete baldness by a wreath of graying hair and a vague memory there had once been more. He smelled spicy, of recently splashed aftershave so strong Fred’s eyes watered.

  Ramsey rocked back in his chair and laced thick pink fingers over his stomach. “Well, Fred, this is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

  Fred settled himself in one of Ramsey’s chairs and nodded to the other one for Kate. “This is Kate Talbot, Joan Cavanaugh’s sister. She’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Ramsey looked from Fred to Kate, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Oh? What kind of questions?”

  Fred opened his mouth to speak, but Kate interrupted. “About my sister—mostly about the state of her affairs when she died.”

  “Well, I don’t know whether—” Ramsey hesitated. “That is . . .” He reached across his stomach, picked up a pencil from the desktop and placed it behind his ear in a deliberate movement. When he spoke again, his tone was measured. “I hope you’ll understand, Miss Talbot, but the choice may not be up to me. There are certain rules I am required to follow. I can’t give out information on Joan’s financial condition to anyone.”

  Frowning, Kate crossed her legs and lowered her purse to the floor beside her chair. “I hope you’ll understand. I’m not asking for specifics, but I am trying to figure out why
Joan killed herself. If she was upset about money, I assume you would know that.”

  Ramsey began shaking his head after her first words and continued as she spoke. “That’s not information I can divulge.”

  Kate’s expression didn’t change, but her voice took on a steely tone. “Mr. Ramsey, my father left a substantial trust set up for Joan and me when he died. Her financial condition at the time of her death may have a direct impact—a substantial impact—on my own finances. If you’d rather, I can contact my attorneys and they can subpoena the information, but . . .” she shrugged almost lazily.

  Ramsey settled himself more comfortably on the chair and smiled at Kate. “Well, now, I don’t see any reason to go to all that trouble. I’m not trying to be difficult. I just don’t want anyone to think I’ve been indiscreet. I don’t know how much I can tell you. I didn’t handle Joan’s money directly. She didn’t bank with us except one small checking account and a couple of certificates of deposit. I believe she kept most of her money in a bank back east. Boston, maybe.”

  “Did she have any money trouble when she died?” Fred asked.

  Ramsey ignored him, but the way he tightened his jaw slightly told Fred he’d heard the question. He kept his beady little eyes trained on Kate’s face.

  “Did she suffer any losses that you know of?” Kate pressed. “Was there any financial trouble at all?”

  Ramsey appeared to think. “No. To the best of my knowledge, she was in sound financial condition. In fact, I know that she had a couple of irons in the fire that would have guaranteed her a substantial profit within just a few years.”

  “What irons?” Fred asked.

  Ramsey glared at him. “I beg your pardon?”