by V. M. Burns
After a few moments, he stood up and we all sat down.
Christopher was taller than Dixie, so that made him more than six feet tall. He was thin but fit and handsome in an unassuming way. Even in college he had been impeccably well dressed. Today was no exception. He had on a tailored suit that, even to my inexperienced eye, looked expensive and shoes that looked like Italian leather.
Stephanie had obviously prepped Christopher ahead of time, but he asked to hear my version of events anyway. It took forty-five minutes for me to go through everything, even though I could see he had copies of the statements I’d made to the police. He took notes and sat quietly and listened.
When I finished, he asked a few clarifying questions, but at no point during our talk did he ask if I’d murdered my husband. I hoped he believed me incapable of murder, but knew it was more likely he didn’t want to know the answer to that question. Having a daughter as a lawyer, I’d learned a lot about ethics as they related to attorneys. It wasn’t always pretty when you looked at it from the outside, but when looking at things purely from a legal standpoint, it made sense. Everyone, no matter who they were or what they’d done, was entitled to legal representation. Lawyers were tasked to provide the best defense on behalf of their client. So even serial killers were entitled to legal representation.
“First, you’re not to talk to the police again without me.” He stared at me in a way that made me feel guilty for ignoring Stephanie’s advice.
I nodded.
“Good. I don’t think I need to tell you this, but no interviews with the media.”
I nodded again.
Christopher looked down, as if he needed to collect his thoughts and find the right words.
Stephanie must have recognized the look. “Whatever it is, just say it. Stop trying to spare our feelings. We need the truth, whatever it is.”
I nodded. “Whatever it is, just give it to me straight.”
He nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s possible that you could be arrested.”
I gasped, and Dixie came over and gave my hand a squeeze of support. Stephanie bit her lip, hopped up, and paced.
“I hope that doesn’t happen, but you had motive and opportunity and…”
“What?” I squeezed Dixie’s hand tighter.
“Do you own a gun?” he asked.
“No. I don’t like guns, but Albert had one.”
“Do you know where it is?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I assume he took it with him. I haven’t looked for it.” I stared. “You don’t mean to tell me Albert was shot with his own gun?”
“The police don’t know. They know he had a…” He rifled through one of the folders on his lap and pulled out a document. He scanned through the folder and stopped when he found what he was looking for. “He had a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, a Glock 17. That’s the same caliber of bullet used by the assailant, and the police have yet to find Mr. Echosby’s gun.”
“Is that what they were searching for?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Probably. They didn’t find the gun at his apartment or the car dealership. So they’re thinking maybe he left it here.”
“What?” Stephanie stared. “I can tell by your face something’s wrong.”
I shook my head. “I just remembered the downstairs window was open.”
“When was this?” Christopher asked.
“Saturday night. The night of the party.” I shook myself. “They think I took my husband’s gun, snuck out in the middle of the night, and shot him with it—with his own gun.”
“Lends a new meaning to ‘hoist with his own petard’,” Dixie mumbled. “I’m sorry.” She looked up. “I repeat stupid quotes when I’m nervous.”
I patted her hand. “It’s okay, so do I, although I don’t usually quote Shakespeare.” I tried to lighten the mood.
Christopher smiled briefly but then got serious again. “If the police find that gun, here or someplace where you could have accessed it, then they’ll definitely arrest you. There’s a chance they’ll try to arrest you even if they don’t find the gun, but let’s hope not.”
I digested this and nodded.
“Now, I want to hire a private investigator to look into a few things.”
“What things?” Stephanie asked.
Christopher sighed. “There are some things with his car dealership that seem sketchy.”
Stephanie looked as though she was going to ask another question, but Christopher held up a hand to forestall interruption. “Look, you asked for it straight, so I’m giving it to you straight.”
Stephanie nodded.
“I’m not saying he did anything wrong, but how did a small used car dealer in Lighthouse Dunes get a million dollars in an offshore bank account?”
We shook our heads. In the midst of all of the struggles in dealing with the police, planning a funeral, and all of the emotional baggage I’d accumulated in the past six months, I had catalogued that piece of information into a mental file cabinet I’d been too afraid to open. However, I realized I’d better open that file—and quickly—before I found myself locked up for a murder I hadn’t committed.
CHAPTER 6
After Christopher left, we sat in stunned silence for a few moments, and I tried to process everything he’d told me. I had no idea how to mentally, emotionally, or physically prepare myself to be arrested.
“Should I pack?” I asked Stephanie.
She shook her head. “I pray it doesn’t come to that, but you won’t be allowed to take anything with you.” She then explained I’d have a bond hearing and would hopefully be released after posting bond.
“On television, they list bonds in the tens of thousands of dollars.” I thought about the last episode of Matlock I’d seen where someone had to post bond.
“The amount will be determined by the judge. The prosecution will want it to be a high number, but Christopher will argue that you aren’t a flight risk and will ask for the bond to be waived,” Stephanie explained.
“They can do that?” I asked.
She nodded. “It may not happen, but he’ll ask. The judge will set the amount, and then we pay ten percent of that amount. So, if bail is set at ten thousand dollars, then you’d only have to pay one thousand.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s doable.”
Dixie nodded. “I can help,” she said. I protested, but she interrupted. “It’s only money and we have plenty of it. I’d like to help.”
I looked in her eyes and recognized the helplessness I saw reflected back at me. She wanted to be helpful, and here was one way she could contribute. So I hugged her. “Thank you. It’s good to know I have good friends.”
We ordered pizza and Stephanie went to pick it up. While we waited for her to return, we sat at the kitchen table.
“Well, Stanley, this is certainly a fine mess.” Dixie quoted Laurel and Hardy.
I laughed.
“I told you I repeat stupid quotes when I’m nervous.” She shrugged.
“I’m the one about to be arrested. Why are you so nervous?”
“I feel about as useful as a bartender at a Southern Baptist camp meeting.” She fidgeted but then cocked her head to the side and stared at me. “So, why are you so calm? You’ve got an idea. I can see the little wheels turning.”
“Well, I was just thinking about what Miss Florrie would say.”
“Who’s Miss Florrie?”
I smiled. “Just a lady I met on the train the other day.” I told Dixie about my conversation with Miss Florrie and how she inspired me to find my “happy place.”
“So, what do you think Miss Florrie would say?”
I pondered for a moment. “Well, I think she’d say some of the same things she said the other night. ‘You been done wrong. Now, what you gonna do ’bout it?’”
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“Well, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have to figure out who killed Albert. The police don’t seem to be interested in anyone but me. Unless I can figure out who killed him, I’m going to either end up in jail or with a black cloud over my head because everyone is going to think I killed him and got away with it.”
Dixie looked at me for several seconds, but then slapped her hand down on the table. “Well, count me in, Sherlock. I been itching for something to do, and helping you figure out who killed that weasel of a husband of yours will be just the ticket. Forget the dog agility workshop I was supposed to attend. Deal me in.”
The poodles had been lying down fast asleep, but they suddenly jumped up and started barking and pawing the back door. Dixie and I had been so intent on our conversation, we jumped at the abrupt change.
Dixie grabbed her purse, pulled her gun out, and pointed it at the back door.
I grabbed a large rolling pin from the drawer, and we both braced ourselves to attack whoever came through that door.
The knob turned and the door squeaked as it was slowly pushed open. A curly dark head with a baseball cap appeared in the opening. “Mom?”
“David?”
Dixie lowered her weapon and quickly yelled, “Fuss.” The dogs hurried to her side.
I ran the short distance and hugged my son. “When did you get here? I thought you weren’t going to make it until tomorrow?” I fired questions at the speed of light and hugged him tighter with each one.
“The airline got me on a different flight at the last minute. I’ve been flying all night.” He yawned.
“But how did you get from the airport?”
The closest big airport to Lighthouse Dunes was in South Bend, but the airport didn’t have international flights.
“I flew into Midway and rented a car.” He held out a hand to Dixie. “You must be my mom’s friend Dixie.”
They shook hands.
“And who are these guys?” He eyed the poodles.
“Chyna”—she pointed to the dog on her right. “Leia”—she pointed to the left. Then she held up the still-yapping fluff ball she was holding. “And Aggie.”
David extended his hand to each dog so they could sniff. The standards sniffed and then gave the hand a lick, apparently approving. Aggie took more convincing. She continued yapping, and when David stretched out his hand, she snapped at him.
“Aggie,” I reprimanded her. “I’ve never seen her bite anyone. Are you okay? Did she break the skin?”
“No. I’m fine.”
Aggie continued to bark and lunged at David even more aggressively. I turned to Dixie, who tightened her hold on Aggie but was also carefully observing David.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked Dixie.
“I’m not sure, but she’s definitely taken a dislike to you for some reason. Do you have dogs?” she asked.
David shook his head.
“Maybe she doesn’t like men. She tried to bite your father.”
“She was fine around the attorney.” She continued to stare at David. “Would you humor me and remove your cap?”
David shrugged and took off his baseball cap.
As if a switch had been pressed, Aggie stopped barking and her tail wagged a hundred miles per minute.
I looked in stunned amazement.
Dixie nodded. “Now, let’s try this again. Let her sniff your hand.”
David tentatively brought his open hand to her nose. She sniffed and then licked his hand.
“What in the world?” I asked.
Dixie shrugged. “Obviously someone wearing a baseball cap wasn’t very kind to her.” She set Aggie on the floor.
We watched as she sniffed David’s pants and then got on her back legs and pawed his pants to be picked up.
He reached down and picked her up, and she snuggled into his chest, as if she hadn’t just tried to take off his fingers.
We sat down and let David fill us in on his travel adventures in getting in from New York. We talked until Stephanie came home with the pizza and a bottle of wine. She hadn’t seen her brother for months and was excited, and I think a bit relieved, to have him here.
We ate and drank wine and filled David in on everything we knew about the murder, the police investigation, and expectations for my impending arrest. He listened in silent shock. After David was up to speed, I filled both him and Stephanie in on my plan to catch the killer.
Neither one of them was excited about the idea of their mother playing detective and they voiced their concerns repeatedly. However, neither could argue with the fact that, unless we figured out who murdered their father, I’d most likely be arrested and placed on trial for murder. In the early hours of the morning, David’s yawns increased in frequency and his eyes drooped.
“You better get some sleep. You look like you’re going to fall over.” I kissed his cheek.
He was too tired to resist and went upstairs.
We sat and talked a little longer, but then Stephanie said, “We better get some sleep. We’ve got a hectic day tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?” I panicked at the thought that maybe Christopher had warned her tomorrow was the day the police would arrest me.
“You’re going to need all of your strength to deal with the funeral and Dad’s family.”
In all of the excitement and worry, I had forgotten the funeral was tomorrow. Stephanie was right. Tomorrow would be a challenging day, and I’d need all of my wits about me to get through it. So, we all headed to bed.
* * * *
The sound of a car engine woke me early. I got up and looked out the window. The spare car was gone. One of the children must have gone out to pick something up. I got back in bed and tried to go to sleep. I tossed and turned for what felt like hours. I dozed off for a bit but awoke shortly afterward. Technically, I probably didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours, so I’m not sure that counted as actual sleep. I struggled to get my mind to shut down. The idea of being arrested made my heart race. Even if the real killer was discovered, how did you live down being arrested? How could I show my face at the supermarket, at church, or even in my neighborhood? Who hated Albert enough to want him dead? Who went to his apartment with hatred in their heart and a gun in their hand, prepared for murder? Lots of people might have wanted him out of the way, but who would have had a gun and truly wanted him dead? To actually take someone’s life was a completely different matter altogether. I struggled to think of anyone who hated him that much. I tossed and turned for what felt like hours, trying to think of someone who wanted Albert dead. Every mystery novel I’d ever read showed me there were basic reasons people resorted to murder as a resolution for their problems.
I sat up in bed and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. I scavenged in the nightstand drawer until I found a notepad and then repeated the search until I found a pen that wrote. I sat poised to write for several moments. Then I wrote Albert’s name across the top of the paper, followed by reasons for murder. After a few moments, I followed with a list, which included: Money, Jealousy, Revenge. There were probably a lot of other reasons, but those seemed the most likely. “I wonder where Albert had money?” I looked at Aggie, but she seemed intent on trying to chew the pearls off the fancy, blinged-out collar I’d bought her. The collar was a little too big, and I didn’t want her to ingest any of the pearls or rhinestones, so I removed it and placed it in the nightstand before I returned to my list.
Next to money, I wrote car dealership, insurance, and pension. As far as I knew, those were Albert’s only sources of money. The last statement I’d seen from our 401k wasn’t enough to inspire murder, at least not in my opinion. We’d taken loans against the money over the years to pay for things like college tuition, taxes, a new roof, and damage to the basement after two days of torrential rains left the basement floode
d, something the insurance company viewed as an act of God and refused to cover in our standard home owner’s policy. Insurance would only provide a motive if you were the beneficiary on the account. If Albert had done as I asked, then the children were his beneficiaries. I made a note to contact the insurance company when things settled down to verify. Because we’d prepaid our burial plot and funeral services, I hadn’t bothered to reach out to the insurance company earlier. However, this would need to be done eventually.
The car dealership was the only other source of income, and I couldn’t believe it was generating enough money to merit killing for. Albert sold enough cars to provide a comfortable living, but nothing extravagant. We certainly couldn’t afford one of those big houses on Lake Michigan, like Albert’s attorney, Charles Nelson, had. Lighthouse Dunes wasn’t like those wealthy Chicago suburbs with foreign luxury car dealerships on every corner. Besides, someone would have to believe they could access the money with Albert gone. Bambi’s face crossed my mind, but I might still have been bitter. I needed to be objective to figure this out. Nevertheless, I’d have to take a closer look through those books at some point. Somehow, he’d managed to sock away a million dollars, so either the car dealership was doing much better than I thought, or…there was something else going on here. The last thing I wrote was illegal activity. Could Albert have been involved in some type of illegal activity that led to him getting killed? It seemed highly unlikely that the man I’d been married to for more than two decades could have been involved in illegal activities without my knowledge. But then, I hadn’t known about his girlfriend either, so obviously Albert was better at hiding things than I’d given him credit for. But a girlfriend was very different from the type of illegal activities that generated the kind of money people killed for. Wasn’t it? I racked my brain to think of what those types of activities might be and wrote down each that I thought of—drugs, weapons, money laundering for the mob. Did Lighthouse Dunes even have a mob? I wasn’t sure, but I had to consider they were everywhere. The thought made me shiver.