“Did she have any physical problems? High blood pressure? Dizziness?”
“Well, high blood pressure, for sure. It runs in the family.” He slightly loosened his clenched fists.
“Some arthritis,” he said. “Makes it a little hard for her to get around, but nothing that keeps her in or anything like that. Can’t this wait? I need to get to the hospital.”
“Why did you call last night?”
“Uh, well, uh—I thought I’d better check and see if everything was all right. Why the hell didn’t I come last night? She lay there all night.” His eyes got watery. “If I’d checked up on her more—come over and—”
“Are you the only son?”
“Yeah. Only one period.” He stared at the Christmas tree by the large front window. “Jo put it up. So she’d—” He stopped.
“Jo?”
“My daughter. Eleven. Smart as a whip and loves her grandmother. Mom didn’t want a tree this year. Too much bother. So Jo— That’s the way she is. Always doing for her grandmother and—” He broke off as though he’d forgotten what he was going to say.
“Do you have other children?”
“Mandy. She’s seventeen. Going away to college in the fall. She loves Mom too, but she has so many things going, she doesn’t get here as often as Jo.”
“How well does Ida Ruth get along with your wife?”
“Lillian loves her,” he said, quickly and a shade defensively.
“They had their frictions,” he admitted. “I guess all mothers do with daughters-in-law. It’s just they didn’t see eye-to-eye on everything.”
“Like what?”
“Oh—” He suddenly focused, worried she’d get to—what? Susan wished she knew. Something about his wife and Ida Ruth. Had they had a fight?
“Nothing specific,” he said. “Just where things should go in the kitchen. Over the counter, under the counter. Things like that.” He took in a breath with a soft sob. “Is there anything else? I need to go tell Lillian. She’s at work, but—”
“Where does she work?”
“At Sanders and Son. The attorneys. She’s a secretary. Been there for years.”
“Do you know what your mother did yesterday?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I should— Why?”
“I wondered if she’d felt ill yesterday, maybe coming down with the flu that’s going around.”
He shook his head. “Pauline might know. They’ve been friends forever. Have their quilting bee every Wednesday afternoon. Both born in Hampstead, went away for years, then came back to stay. It’s a good place. Mother loves it. She has her cronies and she’s important in the church. Always doing things. I need to go,” he said.
“Has she had any arguments with anyone lately? Irritated anyone?”
A weary smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised. She isn’t the easiest person to get along with. She likes things her way, and no changing her mind once she’s decided. Firm as a rock.” He said this as though it were an endearing quality.
His eyes watered and he moved toward the door.
Susan let him leave, saying she’d talk with him again. Indeed she would. Something was going on under the surface that she intended to get to.
After making a few notes, she went outside through the kitchen door. Demarco was poking through the frozen stretch of ground along the side of the garage.
“Find anything?”
“Probably nothing pertinent.” He held up plastic bags with cigarette butts, an old comb, and a pencil stub.
“Let’s get going on the house-to-house,” she said. “You take this block. I’ll do the one behind.”
Many neighbors were already out watching the activities. Demarco got names. Head down against the wind, she walked around the block. The lots were large and the houses well insulated. Which explained why Ida Ruth had been unable to make herself heard when she fell.
At the house directly behind she pressed the doorbell and identified herself to the middle-aged woman who answered.
“Oh, my goodness. My name’s Rita Short. Please come in. What is it? Who’s been hurt?”
“Your neighbor, Ida Ruth.”
“Oh no, oh no. Please come in.” Rita fussed around, straightening the afghan on the couch and lining up the magazines on the coffee table.
“Here,” Rita said. “This chair is comfortable. Can I get you some coffee?”
“Thank you, no.”
“It’s already made, no trouble at all.”
“Really,” Susan persisted. “No.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Rita sounded disappointed. “Is she all right? Oh, my. It’s been so cold, I try not to go out unless I absolutely have to.”
Rita sat on the bench of the old upright piano that had pictures covering the top. On the wall beside it was a piece of stitchery that read,
Hail, Guardian angels of the house,
Come to our aid,
Share with us our work and play.
“What happened?”
“She fell on the rear porch stairs.”
“Oh, no. How badly is she hurt?”
“She’s been taken to the hospital.”
“I should have been checking on her. Oh, no. I’m not a good neighbor. She’s not as young as she used to be and with this weather we should all be keeping an eye on each other.”
“Is she a friend?” Susan asked.
“Well, not exactly, but we’ve lived here for twenty-five years, and she’s been here all that time and then some. She isn’t exactly a person you get close to. Although a perfectly good woman, I have to say. But she does have her own opinions, if you know what I mean.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, she gets very upset when my grandchildren play in my yard and make noise. Children do, you know. And she doesn’t like it at all that the new organist at the church is divorced. She plays beautifully. When my husband’s mother passed away, the young woman played at the funeral. Ida Ruth is—well, she’s sort of old-fashioned, I guess you might say. A divorce is really a sad thing, but I have to admit my own daughter is divorced. Does that mean she can’t go to church?”
“Have you ever seen Caley James at Ida Ruth’s house?”
“Well now, let me see. You know, I don’t believe I have. But you can’t really see much for the trees.”
“Did you see anything last night?”
“No, that I didn’t.”
“Hear anything?”
“Oh dear, did she call for help? I’m just the least littlest bit deaf, and if I have the television on sometimes I don’t hear anything else. I didn’t even know all the commotion was going on over there until Dora called just now. She’s right next door. She said there was an ambulance and police and everything.”
“What time did you go to bed last night?”
“Ten o’clock, like always. Was it after ten that she fell? Poor soul. What happened?”
“Apparently, the railing on her back steps broke.”
“Oh, my dear Lord.” She put fingertips against her mouth. “She wasn’t outside all night long in this cold? Ida Ruth isn’t exactly a kind person, but I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”
Susan escaped after a few more exclamations and went to the next house. No better luck there. People stayed in with the windows shut.
She didn’t get anything until she got to Myrna Cleary. Middle-aged and overweight, Myrna wheezed when she opened the door. She hadn’t seen anything or heard anything. “Poor Ida Ruth.”
“How does she get along with her son?”
“He’s awfully good to her. I see him over there all the time working on things.”
And maybe loosening a stair railing while he’s at it?
“Nobody gets along very well with Ida Ruth. She just isn’t a getting-along-with kind of person. And she does try to run his life, I expect. When somebody is telling you what to do all the time, you’re not just eager to be with them day after day, are you?”
“Did they have a q
uarrel?”
“Not that I know of. And I know he does come over to take her shopping and the like. Takes care of the house. Cleans the gutters and does the painting and such.”
“Did you ever see Tim Holiday over there?”
“The one got hisself killed at Caley’s house?”
“Yes,” Susan said.
“Didn’t know him at all. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”
“He wasn’t ever here to repair your furnace?”
“No. It’s been working along just fine, thank the Lord. But there was a boy a few days ago.”
“What age?”
“Oh me, I didn’t see him, not to take a good look at. Just a boy. He was in the backyard is how I came to notice him. Ida Ruth only has the two granddaughters, you see.”
“What did this boy look like?”
“Well—” She thought. “Tall boy. He was wearing a red-and-white jacket, one of those puffy ones that all the kids are wearing these days.”
“Down,” Susan said. “Was he slender?”
“Hard to tell, isn’t it? But I would think so.” She screwed her eyes shut. “Blue jeans, I believe.”
“Hair color?”
“Blond hair. Light-colored, anyway. That’s about all I can tell you. Oh, except he had on cowboy boots. Black and silver, they were.”
Twelve-year-old Zach James was tall, and he had a red-and-white ski jacket. He also had a pair of black-and-silver boots.
22
Using the radio in the pickup, Susan checked in with Hazel. “Anything that needs my immediate attention?”
“Nope. But we had another one.”
“Burglary?”
“You got it.”
“Damn it!” Susan took three deep breaths. “Okay, keep White on it. I’m going to the hospital to see how Ida Ruth Dandermadden is doing and then I’m going to Woodsonville.”
* * *
The hospital doors whooshed open as she trotted up. She headed for the elevators and Ida Ruth in the ICU.
A nurse was straightening the sheets and checking lines to various machines.
“How is she?” Susan asked.
The frail old woman in the bed looked as though her skin were paper thin on a face with high cheekbones and a prominent nose. Her hands, resting on the top of the white sheet, looked like gray talons. A breath rasped through her throat, then nothing, then another breath. Her chest, bony under the sheet, barely moved.
The nurse, a young woman wearing a short-sleeved yellow shirt and white pants, motioned Susan outside. She had short brown hair, bangs cut straight across, a turned-up nose, and a no-nonsense manner. The pin on her shirt pocket said Amy. “She’s not good. Broken hip. Pneumonia. And a stroke. That’s why she can’t speak much. Her son hired me to make sure she gets everything she needs. I think after she dies he doesn’t want to feel like he didn’t do everything he could.”
“Has she said anything?”
“Nothing that makes sense.”
“Like what?”
“‘You there.’ She’s said that several times.”
“Was she talking to you?”
“No. She might not even know that I’m here. She probably wouldn’t like it if she did, poor lady. Her son told me when he hired me she wasn’t the easiest person to get along with.” Amy smiled. “I told him I could handle her. I’m used to all kinds.”
Susan believed it. The arms under her short-sleeved shirt had a lot of muscle.
“She said, ‘Boy. You, boy,’ a couple of times. I can’t make out much. ‘No’ a time or two. And ‘Wait.’ Like she was telling someone to wait for something, you know?”
“She’s unconscious?” Susan said.
“You can’t ask questions and get answers, if that’s what you mean. What she can hear—” Amy shrugged. “That’s another thing.”
Susan hadn’t expected anything different. Still, it would have been nice to have Ida Ruth explain what all her mumbles had been about.
Susan thanked Amy and headed back out to the parking lot.
* * *
Woodsonville was a small farming community with a population of 425, according to the rusted sign on the edge of town. Water tower, city park with deserted playground equipment, and a downtown section five businesses long. She had no trouble finding the bank, brick and stone with two large rectangular windows across the front.
The county sheriff with a warrant, Susan, a bank official, and someone from Internal Revenue all crowded into the vault area. Susan handed over the key she’d found in Holiday’s apartment and the bank official slipped it into the lock. He had some trouble getting it open, but finally managed and pulled out the box. He placed it on a table.
With everyone watching, Susan opened the safe-deposit box. Inside, there was a Texas driver’s license in the name of Fredrick Joyce with an address in Dallas, two credit cards with the same name, an Oklahoma driver’s license with the name William Forbes, five thousand dollars in twenties and fifties, and some papers for accounts in the Cayman Islands. The bank official added up the amounts and whistled. He showed the number to Susan. Three million dollars.
Neither Fredrick Joyce nor William Forbes was poor. When she got back to the department, she asked Hazel to send a copy of the prints from Holiday’s apartment to the Texas Department of Justice and to whatever the same thing was called in Oklahoma.
23
Susan threw off muffler and coat, sat at her desk, and pried the lid from the coffee. Steam rose. She took a sip. Hot, not exciting. One of these days she’d make a pot of Peet’s coffee, fix some bacon and eggs, and share all that wonderful cholesterol with Perissa.
Her phone buzzed and she picked it up. “The mayor on the line,” Hazel said.
“What this time?”
“Since you didn’t respond to his phone calls, he assumes you don’t want to be a reindeer in the Christmas parade. You can ride with the Boots and Saddles.”
“Did you point out that I don’t have a horse, to say nothing of a boot or a saddle?” Or any of the rest of the regalia. They did the Old West motif with lots of fringed buckskin, cowboy hats, and fancy holsters sporting six-guns strapped to their waists. They also did some impressive drills that, even if she had a horse, she couldn’t do on short notice.
Hazel’s voice bubbled with laughter.
“Tell him that, with everyone sick with the flu, I’m going to have to direct traffic while the parade is passing by.”
“I’ll tell him you’re not in.”
An hour later, Hazel buzzed again. “Beth called from the library and said the microfilms you wanted are in.”
Susan grabbed her coat and ran.
At the library, she slipped in the first film and focused the machine.
In White Water, Texas, on December 24 twelve years ago, Deirdre Noel was stabbed thirty or more times. Blood covered the bedroom walls, floors, and the stairway down to the kitchen.
Branner Noel, the victim’s husband, was picked up the following day, Christmas, arrested, and put in jail. Two days later a grand jury was convened and he was indicted. No bail allowed.
The White Water paper was a weekly, and each week the bulk of it was filled with articles about the homicide, the brutality of the murder, repeated mention of thirty or more stabbings. Wounds were described and emphasis placed on the blood that started in the bedroom and ended in the kitchen. Photos of the victim and suspect were prominent.
There was also a photo of court security struggling with a man whose face was twisted in rage, identified as the father of the victim. He came into the courtroom with a handgun, intent on shooting the defendant. He was disarmed and sent home. Jesus. No mention of his being charged with anything, no mention of his name. She went through the articles a second time and made copies of each one.
Why was Holiday so interested in the murder trial of Branner Noel?
At the shop, she arranged for a copy of the court transcript to be sent to her by overnight shipping. She asked Hazel to fin
d Demarco. Ten minutes later he stood at attention before her desk, back stiff as iron.
“Run a make on Frederick Joyce and William Forbes.” She told him she’d found the safe-deposit box and what was in it.
He nodded, spun on his heel, and marched out.
She sighed. Would Parkhurst ever get over this damn flu and get back to work?
She yawned and rubbed her grainy eyes. Go home, she told herself. Soon, she promised, and put in a call to the prison where Branner Noel had been incarcerated. She asked to speak with the warden. Warden Marble was away for the Christmas holiday. She asked for the assistant warden. He’d gone home for the day. Nobody else was authorized to give out information on an inmate. She left her name and numbers—office, home, and cell phone—and requested that Assistant Warden High call her when he got in.
From Information, she learned that White Water, Texas, didn’t have a police department. Putting her hands on her neck, she stretched it back until it cracked, then she massaged it. No more phone calls. Enough already. She needed to get out of here. That sounded so good, she was reaching for her coat when she pushed herself to make just one more call. She asked Hazel if they had a map of Texas.
A minute later, Hazel came in lugging a large atlas and dropped it on Susan’s desk. “It’s old, so some things have changed. What did you need?”
“I want to find out what county White Water is in.”
Jackson County. She picked up the phone for the last call of the day, she promised herself, and got the sheriff’s department in Jackson County. She explained she wanted to know about the murder of Deirdre Noel that occurred twelve years ago.
“Twelve years?”
Right. How could her weary mind explain succinctly and clearly? “A homicide that occurred twelve years ago may have a bearing on a homicide I’m currently investigating.”
A Cold Christmas Page 13