Murder at Spirit Falls

by Barbara Deese

  There was more shaking of heads and restrained laughter.

  Cate said, “Okay, the police brought Martin Krause in for questioning, but I’m not quite ready to discount George.” She said his name as if it tasted bad in her mouth.

  “You know, I was watching their body language the whole time, his and his wife’s,” Robin said. “He was dancing attendance to her, I mean, he was downright obsequious.”

  “Ooh, good word,” said Cate.

  Robin made a face at her and continued. “She was going through the motions, too, just like he was.”

  Foxy jumped in. “You think she found out about the affair? Or maybe she’s known all along, maybe she doesn’t like sex, and—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, let’s not blame the wife every time a husband strays!” Cate interrupted her. “Some men don’t need excuses. They just compartmentalize. They don’t even consider that the mistress takes anything away from the wife, so long as the wife doesn’t know.”

  “You have a point,” Foxy conceded.

  “Besides,” Robin said, “from what Grace says, Brenda Krause is devoted to her husband.”

  “True,” Cate mused. “So let’s say she suspects or finds out about the mistress. Wouldn’t it be logical for her to wonder if he had anything to do with her death? Wouldn’t that just piss you off to cover up for your cheating husband?”

  Robin stopped writing in her notebook. “But why would she stay with him if she thinks he murdered his mistress?”

  “Money, status,” said Cate.

  “Family,” Foxy offered. “Or even religion.”

  The collective words hung in the air.

  “Grace will get the scoop, I’m sure,” said Foxy. “I wonder if it’s too soon to call her.”

  Robin looked at her watch, made mental calculations. “If I know Grace, she’ll call one of us as soon as she drops Brenda off at home.” Picking up her cell phone to make sure it was still on, she mused out loud. “I wonder how far the wife would go to cover for him.”

  Cate chewed at the corner of her lower lip, shrugged.

  Foxy drummed her fingers on the table. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for Gracie to be alone with her.”

  They fell into worried silence. Suddenly Robin exploded in laughter. “Just listen to us! Talk about melodrama!” She shifted her voice into a lower register, held a spoon up to her mouth and intoned, “And now, the next installment of The Perils of Pauline.”

  After a collective moment of chagrin, Robin continued. “We’re letting our imaginations run away with us, just like that Deputy Dipwad said.”

  And that’s how they left it, with a good laugh.

  21

  Buckled into the passenger seat of Grace’s station wagon, Brenda sat motionless except for her manicured fingers twisting and untwisting the tissue in her lap.

  There were so many things Grace wanted to ask, but she restrained herself. If the poor woman chose to suffer in silence, she’d just have to let her. She exited the freeway where Brenda indicated, heading toward the Sculpture Garden. Traffic was heavy.

  “This has been a very difficult time for my husband.” Brenda turned to stare out the window, her fingers still busy with the tissue. “I know you can understand.”

  Grace nodded. “I’m sure it has been,” she said with empathy. They were climbing the hill into the Kenwood area with its large homes and professional landscaping. “But I’ve heard nothing that reflects badly on Bradford College.”

  “Not yet.” Brenda sucked in her breath, let it out slowly. “But that didn’t stop two alumni who’ve given generously and one of our largest corporate funds from letting Martin know they’d no longer be giving to the college if it, or its president, had any liability in this.” She pointed to the house on the right. “Just pull up to the gate.” From her purse, she produced a remote control and the iron gates swung inward.

  Grace pulled up and put the car in park.

  The house, like many in the neighborhood, was large, formal and spoke of old money. Ivy shrouded much of the stucco and brick exterior. Wrought iron boxes under the mullioned windows overflowed with violet petunias, yellow pansies, and sweet potato vines. Sculpted shrubs and gargantuan flowerpots flanked double front doors.

  “Thank you so much for the ride,” Brenda said mechanically. She put the tissue to her nose and dabbed, staring straight ahead, mute, making no effort to exit the car.

  “Would you like me to come in with you?” Grace offered.

  “Oh!” Brenda was visibly jolted out of her reverie. “Would you like to come in?”

  They entered through the side door into a narrow hallway lined with coat hooks, oak storage cubicles and a modest built-in desk topped with pigeonholes.

  Grace marveled at the orderliness. Her own entryway had a narrow table that was usually covered with receipts for items to be returned, a grocery list, coupons, keys, notes she and Fred left each other, library books either coming or going, and unopened mail that sometimes commingled with letters to go out. No attempt at organization had lasted more than a couple weeks. But here, everywhere she looked, Grace saw proof that order was attainable.

  They walked through another narrow room that served as storage for crowd-sized serving dishes. Brenda opened the glass door on her left. “We can sit in the greenhouse. It’s my favorite room in the afternoon. Just have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  This room, long and narrow like the others Grace had seen so far, ran the breadth of the house, and was only about eight feet wide. The floor was paved in burnt-umber terrazzo tiles. She sat in a chair that proved less comfortable than it looked.

  Shortly Brenda came in and sat on the chaise. She had reapplied lipstick and had exchanged her pumps for ballet slippers. Her suit jacket was gone. “Where were we?” she asked as though they’d been discussing nothing more serious than wallpaper patterns.

  Grace swallowed. “You were telling me how people have threatened to pull their financial support from the college.”

  Brenda nodded. She straightened the fringe of a throw pillow. “They’re all so worried about how it will look if it turns out someone at the school did something improper.”

  Grace noticed she’d downgraded the concern from one of liability. “What do you mean, improper?”

  “Oh, you know how it is. Ever since Watergate, everybody’s suspicious of a cover-up, sort of a what-did-you-know-and-when-did-you-know-it kind of thing. Do they really think we’re supposed to call the press every time someone cheats on an exam or an underage student buys beer or a professor flirts with a coed?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Of course not.” Brenda snorted. “If you say too much, it’s bad P.R. Too little, and it’s a cover-up. Martin has behaved as any professional would. He’s offered condolences to the family and cooperation to the police. He’s been more than civil to them. I say the press be damned.” Brenda tucked her feet to one side. Despite the vehemence of her words, she looked small and vulnerable in the oversized chair.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Grace asked softly. Her mind was sifting through the possibilities. The fact that the police had taken Martin away from the funeral home to question him a second time certainly suggested a cover-up … or something more.

  “Martin and I never had children,” Brenda said, as if that explained everything.

  Grace chose to say nothing.

  Outside, in the small back yard, a trio of goldfinches clung to a thistle feeder, their efforts littering the brick patio with black seed hulls.

  “We were devoted to each other, the way so many childless couples are.” She had a faraway look.

  Grace did not miss the fact that she’d said were. Past tense.

  “We got married just before our senior year of college. He’s been my whole life.” Brenda’s voice cracked. “What do you suppose the police want from him?”

  Grace shrugged, helpless. “I’m sure it’s just routine.”

  Brenda looked at her, p
ointedly.

  Grace shifted gears. “I’m not sure what’s to be gained worrying about it. I’m sure your husband will be home any time now and will fill you in.”

  “And what if he doesn’t come home? What if—”

  “As my son would say, ‘Let’s not burn that bridge until we come to it.’”

  The levity didn’t work. Brenda’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  Grace felt helpless. And stupid. In her attempt to ease Brenda’s fears, she had cut her off before she finished her sentence, and now she really did want to know how it ended. What if Martin was now under arrest, or what if Martin ran? Was Brenda worried her husband would abandon his entire life along with his career, or was she worried about divorce? She’d certainly thought about losing him, whatever the cause.

  “If you don’t mind,” Brenda said, rising from the chaise, “I think I need to be alone. I’m pretty lousy company right now.” She walked through the doorway, expecting Grace to follow.

  Martin was, in fact, being detained. They’d left him to cool his heels in the room where they’d been grilling him for the last two hours. He suspected they were now watching him from the other side of the window as he relived the interview in his mind. Undoubtedly that’s why they left him in this particular room, where each floor tile, each scratch in the wooden table had been witness to his ignominy.

  Too late, he’d realized that hiding, and then admitting, a relationship with Melissa Dunn had moved him to the top of the suspect list. And, interview aside, they’d impounded his goddamn Mercedes. He could no longer delude himself that their interest in him was casual. His attorney charged exorbitant fees, and so far he’d done little more than tell Martin to say nothing. And then that cretin Maki had asked why he hadn’t called one of the college’s attorneys.

  He paled as he remembered his answer. “I didn’t want to involve them,” he’d said. “It seemed personal.” A major blunder. He’d seen it on their faces.

  Their faces, Maki’s and Harley’s, were indeed behind the window.

  “He’s sweating bullets,” Maki said with a chuckle. He squinted as he sipped hot coffee.

  Harley leaned forward, the cheap folding chair shifting precariously. “Yeah, I wonder if we’ll ever have the technology to know what someone else is thinking.”

  “I can tell you exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about strip searches and gang showers and public toilets.” Maki chuckled again. “Very public toilets.”

  Harley studied the face on the other side of the glass. “I wonder. I don’t think he’s quite gotten there yet.”

  Martin shut his eyes, cringing inwardly as he pictured the rumor mill at Bradford. “Oh, she was working under him all right.” Wink, wink. “Old goat like that, what did she see in him?” Money, influence, some would suggest. “If you’re in charge, the rules don’t apply.” This from the staff, who’d sat through hour after tedious hour of mandatory ethics training. They’d be full of scorn, and the Political Science prof he’d sidelined for his dalliance with a student would be properly outraged. Of course the board would demand his resignation.

  There was no question he and Brenda would have to relocate. Surely there was a college of good reputation somewhere that would overlook a momentary lapse in judgment. They didn’t have much in the way of family here, thank God. Of course Brenda had her charity work and her friends, but she really wasn’t one to make waves. A few years back, when he’d been courted by a college in Texas, she’d left the decision up to him, hadn’t she? With that way she had of looking up at him as if he actually deserved her adoration, she’d simply answered, “Whither thou goest, my love.”

  Oh, God. Brenda! Who was he kidding, anyway? This wasn’t a simple matter of moving anymore. He couldn’t imagine how she’d react. They’d never faced anything like this before. If she didn’t leave him on the spot, he’d have to look into her eyes for the rest of his life and see his own betrayal.

  For over a year now, he’d enjoyed two wonderful lives, one with Brenda, the other with Melissa. He’d been considerate of their feelings. Although Melissa knew he was married, he didn’t burden her with talk of his home life, and he certainly didn’t say anything to Brenda. No, he’d done all in his power to keep them separate. The way he saw it, it was like the love of a father for his children. More children, more love to go around. If Brenda had been able to sustain her pregnancies, wouldn’t they have loved each child equally? Parents didn’t feel compelled to justify loving more than one child, did they?

  The familiar words of his interior monologue did nothing to comfort him just now. Martin covered his eyes as if he could press the tears back into the ducts. And then he wept, loudly, in front of God and everybody.

  A few blocks from Brenda Krause’s house, Grace pulled over in the shade of a huge, arching elm, one of the few to survive the Dutch elm disease that had denuded much of Minneapolis. She dialed Robin’s cell phone.

  Robin answered. Foxy had gone home to a full evening schedule of massage appointments. “Cate and I are still on the patio—never mind, we’ll wait inside the coffee shop,” Robin said. “It’s getting a little chilly.”

  Grace, who was staring at her sweaty brow in the rearview mirror, clicked the off button and headed east.

  Twelve minutes later Cate looked up to see Grace striding in. “Geez, Gracie, how did you get here so fast? If I’m over the speed limit by five miles per hour, I get a ticket.”

  “I’m invisible, remember?” Grace ordered an iced cappuccino and settled into the cushy chair in the corner. After giving them a blow-by-blow account of her discussion with Brenda, she said in summation, “I just don’t see him being a murderer. He’s too professional and he’s too good to his wife.”

  Robin’s eyebrows twitched.

  “Not so good that he didn’t have a little something on the side,” Cate said.

  Grace leaned closer. “Oh?”

  Launching into her story again, Cate told about Martin’s reaction to the bracelet, how it triggered her memory. “He first said it was a birthday present for his daughter, but when I asked how old she was, he got this funny look and I knew he was hiding something.”

  “He doesn’t have a daughter,” Grace said.

  Cate leaned forward and said, conspiratorially, “At least not with Brenda.”

  They all paused to look at each other.

  Shaking her head, Robin said, “No, Melissa wasn’t his love child. He was definitely dating her.”

  “Hmm. Dating. Is that what we’re calling it these days?” The corners of Cate’s mouth turned down in disgust. “He’s got a beautiful, intelligent wife who’s made him the center of her universe, and he’s dating a women young enough to be his daughter. Freudian slip, if you ask me, to say the bracelet was for his daughter.”

  The other two nodded.

  “And I suppose he’s compartmentalizing the whole affair and truly believes it didn’t harm his wife.” Cate’s tone was again angry as she reiterated her views on cheating husbands. Pushing herself out of the chair, she stalked off in the direction of the restroom.

  Robin refilled their coffees. She didn’t know how much Grace knew about Cate’s marriage. Robin was fond of Erik now, but there was a time she hoped Cate would dump him. It had been several years ago that Erik had risked it all—marriage, career and home—to have an affair with a nurse. Through counseling and crisis-induced maturity, Cate and Erik had managed to hold their marriage together. It had not been an easy choice, but they had persevered and managed what few couples did in the midst of betrayal, to forge a stronger union.

  Cate returned with a little less mascara. “So, let’s list the suspects. We’ve got Martin Krause and George Wellman. Who else?”

  “The other boyfriend, Todd. Is it possible,” Robin asked, “that Todd could have killed her in a jealous rage?”

  “He’s too sweet,” Grace said with a vehement shake of the head. “And introspective. He just strikes me as someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly.�
��

  “I read something one time by a man who was both a lawyer and a psychiatrist,” said Robin. “He’d spent years studying the minds of murderers and came to one conclusion: the only difference between murderers and the rest of us is that we haven’t murdered anybody. Yet.”

  Grace faked a shiver. “Do I need to worry about you two?” She giggled.

  “Not me,” Cate said. She picked up a straw and, with a maniacal gleam in her eyes, she jabbed it up and down in her best reenactment of the Psycho shower scene.

  22

  Rushing water was the only sound above Spirit Falls that morning. That and the slight whiffling coming from Sheriff Harley’s throat as he slept, slumped over the steering wheel of the patrol car. Sometime in the early hours when sensible people were deep into the REM cycle of sleep, he’d parked behind a thicket of trees to one side of Ross Johnson’s gravel driveway, where he’d locked his doors against any surprise visitors and drifted off to sleep.

  The first shards of sunlight sliced through the trees, and with the rising sun, the temperature within the vehicle quickly rose. Harley’s left hand twitched on the wheel and one eye slowly opened. Lifting his head, he groaned and winced when a loud snap came from his offended neck vertebrae. Probing with thick fingers, he began massaging out the kinks, wondering how much longer his body could take the punishment of a stakeout. Everything hurt—knees, shoulders, and down his right leg, the searing pain of sciatica. In the rearview mirror, he saw neat lines covering his cheek where it had rested on the seamed leather of the steering wheel.

  Squinting toward the sun, Harley guessed it was not quite eight o’clock. A glance at his watch confirmed it. Grabbing the car-radio handset, he called his office.

  “Did you get it?” he asked when he heard Brill’s voice. After arriving home from Krause’s interview last night, he had typed up an affidavit and called Judge Kiernan at home, and the judge had promised to get to the courthouse early and, if everything in the fax was as Harley claimed, to sign the warrant.