I am confused by the new trail. “I don’t get it. Why would Marlene turn off that way? It’s the opposite direction.”
“She wouldn’t, at least not by her own choice. That’s precisely why it’s a clue.”
“You think there was someone waiting here to grab her? How could anyone know she would run through here?”
“To your first question—maybe she was abducted, but I don’t think so. We’ll find out more about that soon enough. As for the second, do you notice how well-tread this primary path is? That means Marlene had been coming out here for some time before the run and training. Can you fathom someone training to cheat? Outrageous! But that’s what she did.”
I see where Ruby is going with this. “If she was sneaking out here regularly to plan for the run, then that gave someone an opportunity to follow her and—”
“Concoct their own devilish plan. Yes, indeed. And that plan brings us to this very point in Marlene’s secret trail. Shall we?”
Ruby steps away from Marlene’s trail and follows alongside the mystery path, careful not to disturb it in any way. I follow. I spot nothing out of place in the grass and weeds surrounding us and apparently neither does Ruby.
A thought occurs to me. “Couldn’t these prints belong to the search parties that looked for Marlene?”
Ruby conceded the possibility but pointed out the lack of additional footprints in the general vicinity. Whoever these prints belong to had made a beeline for this spot.
The mini-trail ran several yards and concluded at the base of a large tree. I thought it odd that the steps did not then turn and go back to the primary trail.
“What do you think happened here?”
Ruby knelt down and studied the base of the tree. I thought she hadn’t heard me, but then she spoke. “I’d say we’re standing on a crime scene.”
The hairs on my neck stand up. My third crime scene of the week. I’ll figure out how to process that reality later. Right now, Ruby wants my attention.
“See these loose pieces of grass?” She plucks pieces of grass and weeds one by one. “They didn’t grow loose. Something happened here to pull them out of the ground. The remaining grass has clearly been trampled on. Can you see it?”
I can see it from standing position but join Ruby in a kneel for the sake of appearance. “Yes, I can. You think there was a struggle here?”
“I should say that much is obvious. The question is—why here?”
I thought the same thing. If Marlene was burning through the woods intent on getting ahead of Gretchen, then why did she veer off her worn path to come to this tree?
“Do you think she was grabbed and dragged here?”
Ruby crinkles her brow and stands up straight. “That might be the case, but for the life of me, I can’t see how someone could stand here in wait without Marlene seeing him from yards back.”
“If it was someone she knew, she wouldn’t have felt threatened.”
“Perhaps. But if she was grabbed back at the trail then why isn’t there evidence of a struggle there? And where are the other party’s footprints?”
She had me there. I look off into the trees for inspiration and am instead distracted by some tree-hopping birds silhouetted by the burnt orange hue of the falling sun. I ponder what Ruby is saying and find I have no response. If Marlene was accosted on her trail, there should be some evidence of it. There isn’t. So, where does that leave us?
And then the inspiration came. “The killer had to approach somehow, didn’t he? And if we’re not seeing any sign of him at the trail, it must have been from another direction.”
Ruby is holding her eyes so close to the bark of the old tree that she might as well be kissing it. “Good thought, dear. Why don’t you poke around and see what you can find. I might be here a few moments.”
Invigorated by my own deducing, I do as she suggests and examine the ground around the big tree coming from directions other than Marlene’s trail. If Ruby is correct in her supposition that Marlene was assaulted at this spot, I should expect to find clear signs of activity through the brush. Knowing this made it nonetheless startling when I did, in fact, discover a line of flattened grass and broken twigs zig-zagging away from the big tree and back in the direction of the primary walking path. I barely inhaled air enough to convey this information to Ruby when she flung herself away from the tree and cut me off.
She held her hands out excitedly. “Do you have a hair pin?”
I caught myself reaching for my hair, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve never once in my life worn a hair pin. “Sorry, Ruby. I don’t. Does anybody use hairpins nowadays?”
“Do you have anything small and sharp on you?”
I reach into my pocket and find some stray safety pins. One thing any runner is never in short supply of is safety pins. Any time you enter a run, you’re provided a packet that includes a bib and a handful of pins with which to affix it to your clothes. I can’t speak for other runners, but I just can’t bring myself to throw any out, so I keep a jar filled with them at my house and always seem to have a few on my person. I now hand one to Ruby.
“Ah, perfect!” she exclaims, opening the pin and returning her attention to the tree, where she sets about performing a delicate operation between two pieces of old bark. “You can’t see it from where you’re at, Lacy. In fact, I don’t think it’s visible to anyone not looking for it, but I’ve found a hole!”
“A hole? And why were you looking for a hole in a tree?”
“I had an idea I’d find one. And it looks as though there’s something in the hole.”
Ruby extracts this something. A piece of paper so small a slight breeze could blow it away.
“Do you notice there’s a fold in it?” asks Ruby, excited at the discovery. I do see it and ask what it means. “I suppose it means someone folded it,” was the answer.
“Ah! Now there’s something! Take a look at that.” She’s no longer looking at the paper but towards the sky. I follow her finger and my eyes land on a branch overhead. Or, what is left of one. It has been sawed most of the way through, evident by the smoothed grain. But below a certain point it is jagged and splintered, as though someone got impatient with the sawing and tore the branch loose from the tree.
“I don’t know what to make of a broken branch, Ruby.”
“Me, either. Not yet, anyway.”
I show Ruby the second trail leading away from the big oak and am elated when she confirms this must be the approach and escape trail used by Marlene’s killer. We follow it to its end (or, more probably, its beginning) and are surprised to find it terminates at a rather open and public location on the main path. Ruby is holding her thoughts close to her chest but remarks in astonishment that if the killer abandoned the run to beat Marlene to the big oak, he would have been spotted doing so by any number of runners. She considers such a course unlikely and says there must be another explanation.
It seems that the mounting clues should now be pointing to the killer, or at least a viable suspect. But, in fact, we know little more now than when we started. But it is early days yet and our adventure on Chicken Hill gave me a new boost of optimism that soon we’d have a suspect in our sights.
I return home and Gretchen informs me I received a call. Yes, I’m a dinosaur with a landline and a voicemail machine. I rarely use either, but keep both out of tradition and an irrational fear that the world will lose all power and once the batteries on all cell phones have died I’ll be the last person on earth with a working phone.
I hit play on my machine and immediately recognize Detective Bentley’s voice: ‘Hello, Ms. Purdy, this is Detective Bentley. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate it if you could come by the station tomorrow. I have some questions I would like to ask you face to face. Please call me after 8am to schedule a time…’
Oh boy, I thought. This doesn’t sound promising. And Gretchen heard the whole thing. No telling what ideas she has about me. I briefly consider discussing the
case with her but decide to stick to the pact of confidentiality that Stax, Ruby, and myself loosely made. After all, Gretchen’s name is on our short list of suspects.
And I surmise from the detective’s brief message that my name is on a similar list at police headquarters.
EIGHTEEN
“I’m going to grab a water from the fridge. You want one?”
I say ‘no, thanks’ and Detective Bentley whisks out of the room. I remain sitting in his office at the station in one of a couple of tumbledown chairs in front of his desk. At least I’m not in some cramped interrogation room.
Last night, after I heard the voicemail from Bentley, I called Stax to get her take on the situation (and because something about her reminds me the world doesn’t totally suck). She assured me I shouldn’t worry unless he started asking me a lot of personal questions in order to find common ground between us. This would mean he was attempting to establish a rapport, and the only reason he’d want to do that is to keep me from suspecting him of suspecting me of murder.
“I hope you don’t think me too forward,” Detective Bentley says upon reentering the room. “But I got you one any way. To save me another trip if you get thirsty.”
He sets a small bottle of water in front of me and pops the cap off an identical one of his own, plopping down in his chair like it was a favorite nook.
“Are you planning to talk me dry, detective?”
He smiles. Not too big and with just a little teeth.
He isn’t unhandsome.
“That’s up to you, Ms. Purdy. I should mention you’re not obligated to say a word to me. Although I appreciate any help you can give me, I can’t compel your help.”
“Fair enough. I’m happy to help any way I can.”
He stands and slips out of his suit jacket, tossing it in the air and landing it squarely on a wall hook four-feet away. It was an impressive sight.
“Good,” he says, resuming a relaxed posture in his chair. “We’ll get started on the heavy stuff in a minute. First, let’s talk about you. I understand you’re relatively new to Cedar Mill?”
“Correct. I’ve been here about six months.”
“From?”
“Missouri. Kansas City.”
“Great town. What’s the song say? ‘They got some mighty pretty women there and I’m gonna get me one.”
“I think it says ‘crazy little women’.”
“No, I’m sure it says pretty. Why would a guy travel for a crazy woman?”
I laugh. I can’t help myself. “I’m telling you, it says ‘crazy’. My mom used to play oldies all the time.”
He reaches into his pocket. “We’re going to settle this right now.” He pulls out his phone and begins doing a search.
“Bah! It looks like we’re both right. Fats Domino sang it ‘crazy little women’ and Willie Nelson, which is the version I know, sang it ‘pretty little women’. I guess it’s a tie?”
“Not exactly.” I am now immersed in his funny game. “Fats Domino sang it first, didn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose he did.”
“That makes it official. Crazy little women it is.”
“Can I quote you on record?”
“Quote me how?”
“That women from Kansas City are crazy?”
He stares at me. I stare back at him. We both laugh.
“Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be right,” I say.
His smile disappears and his eyes narrow. “Would you like to make a confession?”
His question first confuses, then concerns, me. My hand curls into a death grip on my purse when I recall I’m talking to a cop investigating a murder. “Confess? No, not at all. Why do you ask?” I am proud of myself for not stuttering.
“Because I do have a confession. You know the cool jacket throw I did earlier, where it landed on the hook? Blind luck. I maybe pull that off one out of every ten times. That’s why my jackets are always crinkled.”
This guy is something else. I let go of my purse and grab my forehead. I can feel my shoulders quake and realize I am laughing. For the next several minutes we chitchat as though it’s something we’ve done countless times before. He tells me he, too, is a recent transplant to Cedar Mill, having transferred from Boston PD in search of a quieter town with a less demanding crime rate. He is divorced and childless, further compounding our similarities, and fancies himself an amateur chef.
I get so involved in our conversation I forget my purpose for being here. He, too, seems to be enjoying himself. Eventually, the time comes to get down to business.
Bentley picks up an ink pen and sets a legal pad in front of himself. “About Marlene Petrick,” he asks. “How did you know her?”
“Through the running store. I ran in her group.”
“You didn’t know her socially outside the group?”
“Not at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her outside the store, except on those billboards.”
He taps the back of his pen against the pad three times. “Yes, I’ve seen those. How can you miss them? Have you ever done business with her travel agency?”
“No. Like I said, I’ve never seen her outside of the running group.”
“And would you say you were close?”
I don’t like the pointed nature of his questions. He has spoken to others and knows Marlene and I were the opposite of ‘close’. “No, we were not close.”
“I’d heard that,” he concedes, “but I also learned from a store owner in the area that after she was reported missing, you were in their store with photographs asking if they’d seen her.”
Gulp.
“Yes, that’s true. I was just doing my part.”
“Was there some sort of concerted effort I’m not aware of? Because Anderson, her husband, wasn’t aware of any such grassroots campaign to find his wife.”
“Maybe he should have been. If I were him I’d be knocking on every door in this town.”
“Fair enough, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t see anything wrong in helping find someone who is missing. If I were missing, I’d hope others would do the same.”
“I also learned you and Marlene were not on particularly friendly terms.”
“That’s correct. Should I have been indifferent about her being in possible danger?”
“No, no. I don’t mean that. But based on what I’ve heard, and you’re welcome to correct the record, if you’d like, but—”
“Let me guess, you heard I’ve said things to the effect that I’d like to kill Marlene. Is that it?”
“In a nutshell, yes. Is it true?”
“It’s true I said it. I did not mean I’d actually kill her or would want to see harm come to her.”
“I get that. But since she was, in fact, murdered, you can see how this might look.”
“Not really. She wasn’t a nice person. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true, at least as far as I was concerned.”
“Lacy, please understand I have to ask these questions.”
“If I didn’t understand that, Detective Bentley, I wouldn’t be here. As long as you have questions for me and not accusations, you can count on my help.”
“Got it. But I have my bosses, and they’ll want an explanation as to how the woman who threatened the victim’s life and subsequently found her body shouldn’t be looked at as a suspect.”
There it is. I knew the fact I found the body would be an issue. He wouldn’t be much of a detective if it weren’t. But still.
“Yes, I found the body. But that just means whoever put it in the alley knew we’d be running that route.”
“How could they have known that?”
“That’s the same route we always run when Carly’s run leader. It’s common knowledge.”
“Not too common. And from what I’ve learned, you chose the route that evening, not Carly.”
“Did Carly tell you that?”
He grins slyly. “I
can’t tell you that. But you’re welcome to deny it if it’s not true.”
Does he smile that way at everyone he interrogates?
“No, it’s true. Carly injured herself running Chicken Hill and asked me to take lead. But she was still run leader, so naturally I took off on her preferred route. I had no way of knowing she’d ask me to take lead.”
“True, but you also had no way of knowing she’d be too sore to take lead herself, and therefore would be taking your group down that alley.”
“That’s right. But as I mentioned, anyone familiar with our group and Carly’s habits would expect we’d take the route we always take when she leads.”
“We’re going around in circles.”
“Funny, that’s what I always say when Carly leads our run.”
Bentley turns his face away, but I can see the edge of his lips turning up into a smile. “It would be entirely inappropriate for me to laugh at that, so I won’t. What I will do is let you get out of here and get some lunch.”
“So, I’m free to go?”
“You’ve been free to go the whole time. You know, you’re not obligated to answer my questions.”
Truth be told, I’m rather enjoying the experience and a little disappointed to be leaving. Realizing this makes me feel weird, but for me, feeling weird is nothing new.
“No worries, Detective, you made it painless.”
“Thank you. In that case, I do have one more question if you feel up to it.”
“Shoot.”
The detective’s eyes narrow. In that moment he looks the part. “Who do you think murdered Marlene?”
Wow. As soon as he asks the question a few faces popped into my mind—Anderson, Carly, Chase, even Gretchen. There are reasons to suspect all of them, but is there anything solid on any one of them?
“I honestly don’t have a clue.”
“What does your gut tell you?”
“If my gut has any suspicions, it’s keeping them to itself.”
“Well, I can’t compel your gut to answer my questions any more than I can compel the rest of you.”
I laugh. I can’t imagine how my expression reads right now. Something about the thought of this man ‘compelling the rest of me’ makes me go flush.
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