Southern Pecan Killer

by Summer Prescott

  “Dora Lyndhurst.”

  Marshall clickety-clacked at his keyboard for a moment, then nodded. “Oh yeah, I remember her. Cute, not very motivated.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, you could tell that she was just killing time and didn’t really want to work. Her numbers stayed just high enough for her not to get fired.”

  “She ever have any trouble here?”

  “Not that shows up in her record,” Marshall shrugged, scrolling through.

  “She have any friends?”

  “She shared a desk with Tony,” he pointed to a dark-haired young man who was having an animated conversation on the phone.

  “Mind if I go talk to him?”

  “Wait til he’s off the phone,” the supervisor growled. “There could be a commission on the line.”

  “Does anybody actually buy windows over the phone?” Spencer wondered.

  “What they do is set up a consultation. Then one of our sales guys goes out to measure and give a quote. If they sell some windows, the telemarketer who set the appointment gets a cut.”

  “And you?”

  “When they make money, I make money.”

  “Sounds like a good deal for you,” Spencer commented.

  “I worked to get here,” Marshall growled.

  “I’m sure you did. Thanks for your time,” Spencer slid a bill under his desk blotter and left the little glass box that smelled of desperation and tacos.

  He sat down in a chair across from Tony, one which had most likely been occupied by Dora Lyndhurst, and listened to the young man’s spiel, smiling at his skill. He handled the call masterfully and hung up when he’d passed the caller to a confirming agent.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” Spencer remarked.

  “Well, it’s my job,” Tony shrugged. “You new?”

  “No, I just wanted to ask you some questions about Dora Lyndhurst.”

  Tony sighed and gave Spencer a rueful gaze. “Sure man, wanna take it outside? I could use a smoke.”

  “Sure, do you have to ask Marshall or something?”

  “Nah, when you set as many appointments as I do, you get to smoke when you want to,” Tony grinned.

  “Lead the way.”

  The smoker’s area of Eye of the Storm was a small patio behind the building that had large ceramic vats filled with sand and cigarette butts. Tony sat down at a molded cement table and gestured for Spencer to do the same, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

  “Smoke?” he asked, pointing the pack at Spencer.

  “No, thanks. So you were friends with Dora?”

  “Well, as much as you can be friends with a job like ours. There isn’t a whole lot of time for conversation, and her numbers were bad enough that she had to really stay on the phone if she didn’t want to get fired.”

  “That sounds grim. Did she ever say anything about her personal life?”

  “Not really. She worried about money a lot. I saw the story about what happened to her in the paper. Man, that’s rough,” he shook his head.

  “Did she have any enemies that you know of?”

  “Nope, not that I know of, but like I said, we weren’t close.”

  “Did she seem unbalanced or suicidal to you?”

  “No. She was really nice and seemed pretty optimistic, even when she was struggling financially.”

  “Did she ever say why money was so tight?”

  “No, but I kinda got the idea that it maybe had something to do with her husband.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, every time that she talked about turning everything around, she always talked about taking care of it herself, like “I’ll do this” and “I’ll do that.” She never mentioned her husband helping her out at all. Like me and my wife. Whenever we have tough times, it’s always “we” or “us,” not I.”

  “Makes sense. Did she ever talk about her mother?”

  “Only to say that she hated Dora’s job. Thought it was for lowlife’s like me,” Tony chuckled.

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “Oh, heck no. She’d never come here, and if she did, she probably wouldn’t speak to the likes of me.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Spencer shook his hand.

  “Anytime, man. Oh hey,” Tony called out as Spencer walked away.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know if this has anything to do with anything, but Dora had a bruise around her right wrist the last time I saw her.”

  “When was that?”

  “The day she died.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  “Billy was a good guy. Hard worker,” Tom Binkley, William Lyndhurst’s boss told Chas, shaking his head. “He’s gonna be hard to replace.”

  “What made him so special?” Chas asked.

  “He was one of the few guys that I have around here who felt comfortable making deliveries and interacting with the clientele. Rich people didn’t scare him the way they scare most of the guys. They respected his knowledge.”

  “Did he ever say anything about his personal life?”

  “Nah, he pretty much kept to himself unless there was a customer on the line, or in the showroom, then he lit up like a candle.”

  “Did you get a sense about whether he was a happy person or not?”

  “He seemed fine. On an even keel with no real peaks or valleys,” Tom shrugged.

  “Did you ever meet his wife?”

  “Once, at last year’s Christmas party. She seemed nice. They were both really quiet.”

  “What about his finances? Do you know anything about that?”

  Tom looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Something was going on there, I think.”

  “What leads you to believe that?” Chas asked.

  “He asked for advances on his paycheck for the last two pay periods in a row.”

  “Did you give him the advances?”

  “I gave him the first one, because he was such a valuable employee, but the second time, I just couldn’t. We don’t have sufficient cash flow to pay our employees in advance for the long term.”

  “Understandable. Did he say why he needed the money?”

  “I didn’t ask. Billy was a straight-up guy, and his business was his business.”

  “Did he do or say anything unusual recently, aside from asking for advances?”

  “He acted kinda like he was in pain, now that I think about it.”

  “What kind of pain?”

  “I don’t know, like a stomach ache or something. It seemed like it hurt him to lift. Maybe he had a hernia or something.”

  “And when did you notice that?”

  “Right before he…you know,” Tom seemed to turn a little green.

  “I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Binkley. Please give me a call if you think of anything else.”

  “I sure will. I really hope it wasn’t his wife who did this. How sad would that be?”

  “Indeed.”

  **

  “She was a lovely young lady, and that daughter of hers is just precious,” Dora’s neighbor, Gladys Tillman, said sadly, as Spencer sat across from her, sipping a cup of orange pekoe tea that was actually quite good.

  “Did you see them often?” he inquired, helping himself to another snickerdoodle that had been baked that morning.

  “Well, not really. The little one would come toddling over when I was working in my flower beds. She loved the daisies. I’d cut some for her and she’d wear them home, tucked behind her ear. She was just as cute as a bug’s ear, poor little lamb.”

  “Did you ever see Mr. Lyndhurst?”

  Gladys looked troubled and set her teacup on the highly polished cherry coffee table. Her home might be simple, but it was well kept. “Not usually. He worked nights and slept during the day, but I did hear them arguing a time or two,” she sighed and her hand fluttered about the thin silver chain around her neck.

  “Do you know what they were arg
uing about?”

  “Well no, I couldn’t tell what they were saying, I just heard the tone and felt sorry for the little one. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for her to hear her mama and daddy having words.”

  “Did you see anyone visiting the house recently? Maybe someone who looked out of place?”

  Gladys shook her head. “No. No one unusual. Her sister came over every now and again, and that mother of hers wouldn’t ever step foot in their home. She’d come over to pick up the girls in that fancy car of hers, but she wouldn’t get out of it. I’ve never seen a mother behave that way.”

  “Did you ever see or hear Mr. Lyndhurst interact with Dora’s mother?”

  “Oh mercy, sweetie, when he and the mother interacted the whole neighborhood heard it,” she put a hand to her chest and sighed.

  “Not pleasant, I gather.”

  “No indeed. Would you like another cookie, young man?” she smiled at the handsome veteran.

  “No thank you. They were delicious, but I really have to get going,” Spencer stood, putting down his empty tea cup.

  “Well, you just stay right there for a minute, and I’ll put some in a baggie for you to take with you,” she waved a hand at him, on the way to her kitchen.

  “Oh, I really couldn’t…” he began, but she interrupted him.

  “Nonsense! It does this old lady’s heart good to see a fine young man enjoying my cookies,” she grinned, not about to take no for an answer.

  “If you insist,” Spencer was utterly charmed by the woman’s sweet manner.

  **

  The first thing that Chas noticed about Rosemary Conrad’s posh office suite downtown was that its richly colored interior was a stark contrast to her home’s entirely neutral, washed out palette. The furnishings were tasteful, but so modern that they looked hard-lined and uncomfortable, and the artwork looked like a primal scream transferred to canvas. It was a bit jarring, but somehow compelling too.

  “May I help you?” a nattily-dressed young man with an astonishing pompadour inquired from behind a black lacquer desk.

  “I’m looking for Rosemary Conrad.”

  “Two things,” the young man held up two fingers and waggled them at Chas. “One, no one, and I mean no one, not even a fine specimen like yourself, sees Ms. Conrad without an appointment, and two…you’ve got a great look going on there…why would you need an Image Consultant?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Chas smiled politely, betting that the somewhat catty young man was a wealth of information if he wanted to be. “I’ll keep it in mind. So, what’s she like anyway?” he sat down across the desk from her assistant.

  “Between you, me and the fence post, she’s a dragon lady like no other, but she’s very good at what she does.”

  “And you’re her assistant?”

  “Painfully, yes. Antonio Beaudaire at your service. I bow to her every whim, and there are many,” he raised his eyebrows and gave Chas a dramatic look, tenting his fingers under his chin.

  “I bet she has a wide circle of friends.”

  “Oh please,” Antonio shook his head and rolled his eyes. “No one ever gets to be around her long enough to call her a friend. I come the closest and I think she’d shatter into a million pieces if I tried to give her a hug or something.”

  “Why is she so untouchable?”

  “Because she can be. Her work is her whole life and she’s brilliant at it. It’s all anybody cares about.”

  “Have you ever met her family? Surely she relaxes at home.”

  “Well, I did meet her late husband, who I think just died because it was the easy way out. That poor tormented man gave her everything and it still wasn’t enough. Who could blame him for having an affair with their spicy little gardener? Oh, and The Rose actually does love her daughter, but she despises the little working man that she married. He refused to bow down to her, so she had nothing but daggers of doom for him.”

  “I thought she had two daughters?”

  “Oh right. I always forget about the one who lives with her. She actually married well, but she’s divorced now, so she moved back home. She was a daddy’s girl, and daddy died right before she got divorced, so it was a heck of a year for poor Jeannie.”

  “When was that?”

  “Couple of years ago. Tragic really, but listen to me prattle on, you must think I’m a terrible gossip,” Antonio grinned.

  “Well, I was hoping so,” Chas chuckled.

  “You are the best! I know you don’t need it, but I’d love to see your face around here again, would you like me to set up an appointment for you?” the assistant’s fingers were poised over his keyboard.

  “Let me check my calendar and get back to you. I’ve enjoyed our little chat.”

  “Likewise, handsome. Feel free to drop in if you’re in the neighborhood,” Antonio handed him a business card with a cell number penned on the back.

  Chas raised a hand in farewell, and slipped the card into his pocket. It might come in handy in his investigation.

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  “So which one are we starting on first?” Fiona asked, stifling a yawn.

  Timothy Eckels had picked her up shortly after 6:30 this morning, because he wanted to get an early start on the murder/suicide victims.

  “Since the woman is the alleged perpetrator, we’ll start on her first,” Tim replied, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

  “You don’t think she did it?”

  “I think that it’s nearly impossible that she did it.”

  Fiona was excited. Tim was always much more forthcoming with information once he could actually start on the autopsies, and he would generally walk her through his thought process, which never ceased to astonish her.

  “Really? What makes you say that?” Fiona asked casually, not letting her curiosity show too much. In her mind she thought of Tim as a sort of timid deer. If you moved too fast, you might startle him and he’d just go away. She had to ease him into the conversation by pretending to be humoring him, as though she had no interest at all.

  “The bodies were posed for one thing. That’s why Chas Beckett said that the scene looked too perfect. It did. Human bodies don’t fall and end up arranged like that,” he shook his head.

  “Whoever did this knows very little about death and physics.”

  “Is that the only thing that would lead you to that conclusion?” Fiona feigned disinterest, helping him lay out his instruments.

  “No. Did you notice this?” he held up Dora’s hand and showed her a black smudge along the side of it.

  “Is that gunpowder?”

  Tim blinked at her for a moment, looking as though she’d just offended him.

  “Of course not. What would gun powder be doing on the side of her hand?” he frowned.

  “I don’t know. What do you think it is?”

  “My guess would be ink. Did you see this?” he pointed to a watch on Dora’s other hand.

  “I saw it. No one stole it, but it’s kind of a cheap watch…”

  “You’re missing the point,” Tim pushed his heavy glasses up with the back of his wrist.

  “Then what is the point?” Fiona gave up feigning disinterest, frustrated.

  “This victim is left-handed,” he replied, as though it explained everything.

  “So?”

  “So…look at the crime scene photos,” he directed, pointing at a desk next to the wall.

  Fiona marched over with a heavy sigh and picked up one of the crime scene photos.

  “I really don’t see what being left-handed has to do with…” she began, then stopped, her eyes widening. “Ohhh…” she breathed. “The gun was in her right hand.”

  “Precisely. There are also indications that her body was moved and posed after death, and the angle of her gunshot wound couldn’t have possibly been self-inflicted.”

  “You’re not going to be able to give her an open casket funeral, are you?” Fiona realized. />
  “No. Her mother didn’t want one anyway. Said she preferred to remember her daughter the way that she was.”

  “That’s kind of odd. You’d think she’d want the closure of seeing her one last time,” Fiona murmured.

  Tim stared at her. “Would you want to see your loved one’s face torn to pieces by a murderer’s bullet?”

  “Rather than never seeing them again, or never saying goodbye…yeah, I probably would.”

  Tim’s attention was captured by something he just noticed, and he bent to take a closer look.

  “What?” Fiona asked, peering over his shoulder.

  “Look at the color of this bruise. This was relatively fresh before she died. She couldn’t have had it more than a day or two,” he pointed at the bruising which circled her wrist.

  “You think she was tied up?”

  “No, it’s not consistent with bindings,” he frowned.

  Making a note in the case log, he finished his initial observations, then put Dora’s body back in cold storage and went to work on preliminary findings for William.

  “Wow, that’s a lot of damage,” Fiona observed.

  “Clearly whoever did this was hoping that blowing a hole in his chest would hide the fact that he had a broken rib,” Tim mused. “See the bruising?”

  “Oh wow, I hadn’t even noticed that,” she murmured.

  “Which is exactly what they were banking on, no doubt. Hmm…I wasn’t counting on that,” Tim mumbled, and went back to the spread of crime scene photos on the desk. “Interesting.”

  “What?” Fiona looked down at the photos, wondering what her boss was thinking now.

  “Well, judging by the angle of the shot, it appears that she could have shot her husband, but not from the spot where she was posed in death.

  “So maybe she shot him, then someone shot her and tried to make it look like a suicide?” Fiona summed up.

  “Quite possibly. We’ll have to test for powder residue on her hands.”

  “Didn’t the police do that already?”

  “Of course, but I always do my own testing,” Tim stared at her. “You know that.”

  “Well, let’s do that then,” she handed him the test strips for gunpowder, then stood by tapping her foot while the machine read the strip.