by Jean Rabe
Apparently news hadn’t reached her yet about Conrad Delaney. Two murders in Spencer County. A savvy reporter from a big-city newspaper would link the deaths, would talk to the Hagees and discover Conrad had been posed, maybe find Abigail’s pastor and learn about the white Christmas ribbon. But sleepy Spencer County didn’t have an investigative reporter like that, her father had said over breakfast.
“The man, Viv, what did he look like?”
“Did he…do you…do you think that man killed Sweet Abby T? A murderer? Why would you think—”
“What did he—” Piper figured she’d gone about this wrong. MP training? Yeah, she’d aced it. But never a murder investigation, an actual investigation. Textbooks and Law & Order reruns and commanding officer lectures hadn’t prepared her enough for the real thing. Inexperienced, she likely should have taken a different approach, maybe not have talked to the manager here…found her at home, visited the clerks at home… Maybe she should’ve taken the autopsy and sent Oren here, or Randy.
“He was several inches little taller than me and had a Colts stocking cap pulled over his ears to match the jacket, stubble on his face. I remember it being cold the week before Christmas. Hadn’t snowed much. We only had a dusting on the sidewalk when I opened up. I could use a broom, didn’t need a shovel. He had nice eyes, a good smile.”
“Go on.”
“He was polite, respectful, called me ma’am, which made me feel a tad old. Good voice, a little deep. I’d heard him singing to one of the Christmas carols. Some of our shoppers sing along, you know. A favorite comes on and you can’t help yourself. You start singing.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“His eyebrows were brown except there was a streak of white, maybe paint, maybe just white hair, in one of them. I don’t remember which one.”
Piper remembered that the Colt-jacketed man in the quick stop had the makings of a beard. He might have had a streak in his eyebrow; she couldn’t summon a clear enough mental image, hadn’t looked at him but for a moment.
Vivian closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’d recognize him if I saw him again. It was buying all those mugs, wanting just the red ones, being a couple of dimes short, that’s why I remember him…having to go in the back room to get more mugs, him paying cash. That was memorable.”
Piper had taken pictures of the people shivering on Conrad Delaney’s driveway. She’d go back to the office, print them out, and have Vivian look at them.
“He didn’t buy anything else,” she continued. “Oh, and he looked strong. The jacket was tight around his shoulders. I remember wondering if he was an athlete. Jay Cutler was born here, you know.” Another pause. “And I wondered what he was going to do with the mugs, maybe give them to people where he worked, fill them with candy. Some people buy our mugs and fill them with candy, tie curly ribbons on the handles.”
He filled Mr. Delaney’s with coffee, Piper thought, Miss Thornbridge’s with tea—and used curly ribbons to tie the mug to her hands.
She shivered.
He’d bought eleven mugs.
Seventeen
“You don’t like her do you?”
Oren looked across the table and shook his head. “Nope.” He stirred the cottage cheese with his spoon. “Do you, Annie? Do you like her?”
Dr. Neufeld pushed her tray aside, finished with her meal, the plate as clean as if his cats had licked it. They were in the hospital cafeteria, the lunch crowd dispersing around them and the chatter of competing conversations dying. “I don’t know, Oren.” She crossed her arms. “Verdict’s out as they say. I don’t really know her. Can’t judge what I don’t know.”
“She said you were finishing the autopsy on Delaney when she got here yesterday.”
“I started early, and I hadn’t bothered to let her know.”
“Good.” He stirred the cottage cheese some more. Oren knew he should have been hungry, but the Thornbridge autopsy, reasonably quick though it was, had unsettled his stomach. He hadn’t touched his meal, other than to move things around.
The coroner’s preliminary ruling: asphyxiation due to strangulation. Tox panels were set to run, but they expected to find nothing beyond whatever plethora of prescriptions Mrs. Thornbridge had been taking. Dr. Neufeld showed him the marks that indicated the killer had used his hands, apparently with gloves on. Large hands, giving further strength to the notion they were looking for a man.
“I should have let her know,” she continued, “that I was starting Conrad’s early. I would have let you know.”
He nodded.
“She’s young, Oren.”
“Same age as my granddaughter. Twenty-three.” Oren set the spoon down and pushed the tray to the side. “I should have retired. Maybe I should retire now, but—”
“She might not pass the sheriff’s exam come spring.”
“There is that.”
“Why don’t you hold off on that retirement until then? Besides, what would you possibly do with all that free time? You can be boating every day, especially in this weather.” Dr. Neufeld smiled sadly and reached for Oren’s sandwich. “You’re not going to eat this, are you?”
“Nope.” He was amazed she could have an appetite after cutting someone apart. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“This murder…murders…they’re keeping me occupied. And the sheriff’s in over her head. Way the hell over. She gave me a choice this morning—the autopsy or the Ho Ho Ho place in Santa Claus. A choice. Paul Blackwood would never have given me a choice. Paul Blackwood would have given orders. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Maybe I’m in over my head, too. Never had something like this here. In all my years in the county. Nothing like this. It’s sick.”
“I don’t disagree on the sick part.” She worked on his sandwich.
He noticed a divot in the tabletop. Oren had worked two murders when he was with the Rockport police department, the first when he hadn’t been on the job long. They were simple, he remembered. One was the result of a drunken dispute between farmers after a bar had closed down, accidental. The larger farmer had leveled a haymaker at the smaller, dropping him onto the sidewalk, where his neck snapped. The other case involved a man running over his mother-in-law—intentional, he was sentenced to fifty years. Oren wondered if he was still kicking in the pen.
There were a few other murders in the county in the past twenty years, also solved without a great deal of work, domestics for the most part.
But this?
Oddly, he found it both disheartening and exciting. Sleepy Spencer County had a nutcase that had it in for two old people and dressed them up to look like Christmas cards.
“Whatcha thinking about?” She’d finished the sandwich and eyed his cottage cheese.
He nudged the bowl toward her.
“That Abigail Thornbridge was Conrad Delaney’s fourth grade teacher, and that she later was the principal when Conrad’s kids went to that same grade school. So that’s the connection between her and Conrad. And apparently Conrad’s wife, Sara, went to Abigail’s church. Conrad didn’t go to church, his neighbors said, at least not often enough so’s they’d notice.”
“Small county like this, a lot of people are connected.” Dr. Neufeld started on the cottage cheese. “I just want you to get the son of a bitch. Conrad Delaney was my very good friend. I’ve hardly slept.”
“Yeah, I want me to get that son of a bitch. When we were young, Conrad was my good friend, too.” Oren wanted to solve it on his own, maybe with Randy’s help, didn’t want the State called, didn’t want the new sheriff’s fingers in it. But she was in it, wasn’t she? She’d been run off the road, and Oren believed what Piper believed, that the killer had done it. Randy wasn’t sold on that notion yet, but he always looked at all the angles before picking a conclusion. Oren figured Piper had seen something—or the killer thought she had seen something—and he wanted her eliminated because of it.
Oren wanted her eliminated, too, but from the depart
ment and not in any permanent way.
“I don’t know what she saw, Annie, what Piper Blackwell did—”
“—to get the killer’s attention?”
He’d shared that bit about the crash with Dr. Neufeld during the autopsy.
Oren shrugged. “Something. Just something she saw.”
“Maybe the sheriff didn’t see something. Maybe she saw him.”
Oren sat straight. “And maybe she didn’t know it. Hell, probably didn’t know. Twenty-three. Helluva thing, Annie. Twenty-three and she’s running the sheriff’s department.”
“She has to pass the test come April to keep the office.” Finished with the cottage cheese, she reached for Oren’s chocolate chip cookie.
“Or not pass it.” He caught her studying him like he was a sample under a microscope. “Conrad, Abigail, they knew their killer.”
“Sure. They probably sent him Christmas cards.”
“And probably let him into their house.” He stared at the divot. “If they knew him, maybe we know him…saw him, talked to him. Small county, like you said.”
“Probably.”
“So maybe he’s been around in the county a while.”
“Probably.”
“And maybe something sent him over the edge this year.”
“Definitely.”
He growled softly. “It’s in front of me, Annie. It has to be, and I just haven’t made the pieces fit right.” But maybe he’d make them fit a little better. Randy had called, said he was bringing in a few people to question again, something not sitting the way it should. Oren was going back to the office to catch the interviews. “I’ll make them fit, Annie, all the pieces. Before Piper Blackwell does.”
“You really don’t like her, do you?”
“She’s twenty-three,” Oren said, as he grabbed his coat.
Eighteen
“I’ve been going over it and over it, Chris, and the times don’t fit right.” Randy sat across from Chris Hagee in the small room. A six-foot table was between them, two chairs on each side, not much wiggle room for anything else.
Oren squeezed in and took the other seat opposite Chris. He was surprised Hagee was one of the folks Randy had called in to talk with again.
“Looking through our notes,” Randy continued, “Oren’s and mine, a couple of things don’t match.”
Chris didn’t say anything. He wore the same green coat he had on when the department got the call about Conrad Delaney. Oren still smelled the cigarette smoke on it and saw the pack outline in Chris’s front pocket. Chris unzipped the jacket and shrugged out of it. He had a heavy flannel shirt on underneath, no T-shirt, wiry gray wisps of chest hair showing where he’d not buttoned it at the collar.
Oren didn’t say anything, either. His mind flitted between the image of Conrad Delaney in the sleigh and Abigail Thornbridge in her living room. Sick bastard to do that. Oren never had a high opinion of Chris, but he hadn’t thought him the sort who could do something so evil.
Randy tapped his notebook, and then pulled a recorder out of his pocket and set it on the table. “I’m gonna record this, Chris.”
“Suit yourself.” Chris rested his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. Oren heard him tap his toes.
“Like I said, things don’t match.” Randy waited.
A phone rang in the other room, three times before the dispatcher answered it; not the emergency line, that had a different sound to it.
“What doesn’t match?” Chris said after a few more moments had passed. “I done told you everything I know. Told Oren that night…morning…of my party.” He belched. “Excuse me. Told you the next day. Ain’t got nothing else to say about it except I feel bad about Conrad…and I told you that earlier, too.”
Randy waited. Oren knew the detective played with silence, that it could make people feel uncomfortable and that they needed to fill it up with noise, even if that noise was the sound of their own voice. The phone again; she picked it up after two rings. A moment later a gentle shushing sound—the main door opening and its rubber strip sliding along the mat. The door closed. Muted voices; probably the next interview showing up early.
“So what doesn’t match?” Chris tapped his foot faster, and his elbows slid off the table. He sat a little straighter and folded his hands. He didn’t meet their eyes, instead looked at a whorl in the table.
Oren saw a vein in Chris’s jaw stand out, an indication of fear or worry. All of it was a “tell,” proof that Chris was hiding something. What had Randy picked up on that he’d missed? Was he really getting too old for this?
“What doesn’t match, huh?” Chris persisted, his eyes still down. Oren saw a vein standing out at Chris’s temple.
Randy glanced at his notebook. “You said you went over to Conrad Delaney’s about eleven-forty.”
“Yeah, twenty to midnight. I wanted to get over there, make an invitation he’d decline, and get back before the ball dropped, you know. Told Oren that. Told you that.”
The dispatcher stuck her head in the doorway. “Buck radioed and said no go on talking to the roofer. On vacation, he said. Apparently no one wants roofing work done in the winter.”
“Thanks.” Oren waved her away.
Randy tapped a pen to the notebook, in time with the tapping of Chris’s foot. “Well, you’re consistent on that story. But it doesn’t match what some of your guests told me.”
Chris shifted in the chair.
Oren’s interest was definitely piqued.
“Your cousin said you went over a few minutes after eleven, that you were there a little while, and then came back, talked to your wife in the kitchen.”
“Maybe I got the time wrong.”
“He said you went back over…at eleven forty. Said you made two trips.”
“My cousin, he was drinking. Hell, everybody at my party was drinking. He probably didn’t know what he saw.”
Randy put the pen down. “Three other people at your party said the same thing, Chris, that you went over to Conrad Delaney’s twice.” He let a little more silence settle and Oren watched Chris’s jaw clench. “Dispatch said your call came in at eleven fifty-five.”
Oren knew Teegan talked to Chris a few minutes, and then called Piper Blackwell, apparently timing that call at midnight, when the new sheriff officially took over. Then Teegan called Oren.
“I waited outside, just like the dispatcher told me to. I told Oren that.”
“You also told Oren that you called your wife from the phone in Conrad’s living room. But phone records don’t show that, only the call to the dispatcher at 11:55.”
“Well, I called Joanie. The records are wrong. I called and they all came over for a peek.”
“Actually, Chris, your cousin said everyone was curious and came over a few minutes after you went to the Delaney house the second time. You didn’t need to call your wife and tell her about Conrad because she already knew. You’d told her after your first trip, didn’t you?”
Chris didn’t answer.
“And the people from your party, they all came over on their own, curious, wanting to take a look.” Another stretch of silence. “Four people from your party tell the same story. Did they all get it wrong? Do I need to have Joan come in and ask her the same questions?”
Chris worked his jaw, his eyes beads fixed on his fingers.
“Why two trips, Chris? Why did you go to the Delaney house twice? And why did you wait to call the dispatcher until your second visit?”
Oren cursed himself for not asking the guests the questions that would have led to the two trip discovery. But he figured Randy must have only made the connection late this morning, which is when he called Oren during the autopsy, told him he was bringing some people in, that things didn’t match.
Maybe he really was getting too old for this. Maybe he should retire.
“What’s it matter if I went over there once or twice? What’s it matter, you know? Conrad was dead dead dead. Dead dead dead, I say. F
rozen like an icicle. Dead. What difference does it make how many times I went over there? What if I went over a hundred times? An icicle just sitting there, I told you. Dead dead dead.”
And apparently Conrad had been sitting there—dead dead dead—for two or three days and no one had noticed, Oren reflected.
“I only went in the house once.”
“But you went over there twice.” Randy’s voice had an edge to it.
“I didn’t kill him.” Chris sounded angry. “I wouldn’t kill nobody. You know that. So what’s it matter if I went over there twice?”
“Because the truth matters,” Oren said. He watched Chris’s expression soften a little.
“So tell us the truth,” Randy prompted. “Tell us the truth and maybe you can go home.”
Chris plopped his elbows on the table again and fidgeted with his fingers, like his thumbs were dancing with each other. “My Joanie, it mostly happened the way I told Oren. She saw Conrad sitting in the sleigh, you know. Around eleven she saw him and told me to go over, invite him, that he shouldn’t be alone. So I put on my coat, you know, and went over, stopped at the end of the driveway and lit up. Joan don’t want me to smoke in the house. I saw that Conrad wasn’t moving, figured he was dead. I really did think he’d had the big one, you know. He’d had a heart attack some years—”
“Go on,” Randy said.
“I finished half my cigarette and walked over. I saw them boot tracks I told Oren about, walked right inside ’em to keep the snow out of my dress shoes. Went right up to the sleigh…them tracks went up to the sleigh, around the sleigh, up to the sidewalk. I saw that Conrad was dead. Dead dead—”
“—dead. Yeah, I get that.” Randy crossed his arms and leaned back. “So why didn’t you call the dispatcher then, the first time? Why didn’t you go inside the house on your first trip? Or better yet, why didn’t you call the dispatcher when you went back to your house after your first trip? Why did you wait and—”
“Because I took the damn sleigh bells, that’s why.” The anger had returned to Chris’s voice. “Because I walked around the sleigh, in them boot tracks, and pulled the sleigh bells off. Antiques. My Joan likes antiques. Conrad was dead. Dead dead dead. He sure didn’t need the damn sleigh bells. His loser of a son…he didn’t need the damn sleigh bells neither. So I took the bells. What’s it to you? They were out in the yard, that’s pretty much public property, you know. They weren’t inside the house. Conrad would have liked my Joan to have ’em, you know? I took the bells and I put them in my garage, went into the kitchen and told Joanie about Conrad having the big one, about him being dead. Someone took his damn Teddy bear a few years back. That wasn’t me by the way. Someone took that damn bear ’cause it was sitting outside. Well, the bells were outside, too.”