“Uh—well, maybe Sheriff Riggs might know something about that. He’s been here that long, but he’s out right now. Could I take your number?”
Of course, he was out. She recited her office number, her home number, and the number of her cell phone, then heaved herself up from the chair and reached for her coat. When the phone rang, she eyed it narrowly, but sighed and picked it up.
“Mayor Bakover on the line,” Hazel said.
Susan fled.
On the way home, she stopped to pick up a pizza. Not bothering to even check her phone messages, she sat at the table with Perissa perched on one corner. Pizza, a beer, and she was sufficiently stuffed and so weary she had difficulty hefting herself to her feet.
Before she trudged upstairs to bed, she stopped at her home office to see if anything urgent was on her answering machine. Two hang-ups, a message from her father telling her to call him, and the voice of Mort Stoddart, former San Francisco cop, now with the FBI.
“Because it’s the season of giving and because I remember you busting your chops to save my ass that time I screwed up and let a suspect get away, I got your prints identified for you. Don’t ask me how. I’m going to be paying back favors for years. The prints belong to a Branner Noel, convicted for murder twelve years ago. Don’t say I never repay my debts. Merry Christmas.”
She replayed the message. Tim Holiday was actually Branner Noel, and he’d been reading about the homicide he committed twelve years ago. Who killed Holiday/Noel? Why had he been released from prison? She assumed he’d been released and hadn’t escaped somehow. Why had he come to Hampstead? Was his death related to the homicide of his wife all those years ago? Revenge? That would mean someone was here, or had been here, who was involved in the homicide of Holiday/Noel’s wife. Who? Was he or she still here?
And how did Caley come into this? She hadn’t even known Holiday/Noel.
Susan took herself to bed and let her mind pick over the questions all night.
24
With the cat’s help, Susan managed to drag herself out of the warm bed and stumble into the shower. The shower didn’t do a lot, but she managed to pull on some dark blue pants and a white sweater. She dumped dry food into Perissa’s bowl, and the cat sniffed it and gave her the how-could-you look.
The pickup groaned and grumbled before it finally caught. She sat shivering while it warmed up enough to move. It was even longer before the heater blew out hot air. Another dark, cold, clear morning. The stars, not knowing another day had started, glittered as brightly as though it were the dead of night. At the Coffee Cup Cafe, she got two sugar doughnuts to take with her. She thought of getting something for Hazel, but knew Hazel wouldn’t eat it. Not healthy.
It wasn’t yet six o’clock when Susan got in. Hazel was at her desk. Had to get up pretty early in the morning to beat her.
“The court records just came,” Hazel said. “I put them on your desk. And I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Thanks, Hazel.”
Susan threw muffler and parka over the coat tree, sat at her desk, and took a large chunk from a doughnut.
The trial records were slow going, and lack of sleep had her eyes glazing over. She must be getting old. There had been a time when she could go days with little sleep.
She skimmed through the jury selection and didn’t start reading carefully until the trial actually got under way. It was immediately apparent that Noel’s lawyer wasn’t good at his job. He seemed to be out to lunch most of the time, letting inflammatory comments go by with no objection. The judge seemed to be a wee bit prejudiced too. With the defendant charged with murder in the first, this trial zipped through at great speed. The jury found Noel guilty and the judge sentenced him to life in prison with no possibility of parole. Bing, bang, guilty.
Bernadette Dalrumple, the prosecution’s most damning witness, had testified the defendant had threatened his wife over and over, and she’d seen him strike her several times.
Where was Noel’s lawyer when this trial was going on?
She got up for a coffee refill, then went back to the trial records. An hour later, Hazel buzzed. “Sheriff Riggs on the line.”
“Jackson County, Texas.”
“Right,” Hazel said. “I’ll put him through.”
“Good morning to you.” Deep voice, soft lazy drawl. “I’ve been kind of expecting this call. Your boy was one I sort of wanted to keep an eye on. Who’d he kill?”
“No one, as far as I know. He was the one who got killed.”
Silence on the other end of the line. “Well, now, that kind of does surprise me and kind of doesn’t. The bastard stabbed his wife about thirty times. Most horrible thing ever occurred in these parts. Blood all over the place. Near as we could figure out, she was sleeping. Perp just kept stabbin’ away at her, tryin’ to get her to die. Blood all over the bed. She fought. I gotta say that little lady musta fought like a tiger. Scattered blood all over the floor and walls, staggered to the hallway. Got stabbed some more, made it to the stairs, blood spattering all the way. Walls and floor. She rolled down the stairs, perp comin’ after her and stabbin’ stabbin’. She made it all the way to the kitchen, where she finally succumbed. Folks were all horrified. Tell you the truth, I had a hard time keepin’ the son of a bitch alive till the trial, they were so outraged.”
“How do you remember it so well?”
“I was brand-new then. First time I was involved with anythin’ like that. You tend to recall the first one.”
Yeah, you do, Susan thought. Her first was a baby. Beaten so badly its head was oblong like a watermelon, both legs broken.
“We tried the murderin’ bastard, convicted him, and threw his ass in jail for the rest of his natural-born life.”
“What was he doing out? Don’t tell me he managed a prison break?”
“No, ma’am. He was set free.”
“Why?”
“Sentence overturned on appeal. Prejudicial publicity. Little bitty town. Spread all over the paper.”
“When was he let go?”
“Six months ago. Took Sonny that long anyhow.”
“What?”
“Sonny Ward, his attorney. Name’s actually Marvin; ‘round here we call him Sonny. You know who killed him?”
“Haven’t a clue. Why did he kill his wife?”
“He was the jealous type. They fought all the time.”
“He beat her up?”
“Couldn’t prove that. She was having an affair. With his best friend, is my guess.”
“Who was that?”
“Name was Mat James.”
Mat James? Well well.
“But that was never proved.”
“James was married?” Susan asked.
“Sure was.”
“Did his wife play into the investigation?”
“Kathleen, her name was. She died not too long after the murder. The file on her death is still open as to whether it was suicide or murder. Coming so soon after the murder, most folks assumed she killed herself because she knew something that would show her own husband was the guilty one.”
“Did you think so?”
“Well, I gave it some thought, but she was always frail, unstable like, under a doctor’s care.”
“I see.”
“And then there was others thought maybe we convicted the wrong one and maybe it was Kathleen herself who wielded the knife.”
“What was your feeling?”
“Well, I tell you, there’s lots to point to Noel, and I was always confident he did it. Kathleen James was Deirdre Noel’s friend—best buddies, you know—and so distressed she maybe killed herself. Kathleen’s death tore up Mat James’s mother. She had to see a doctor there for a time.”
Ettie?
“Next thing you want is Sonny’s phone number.”
“Exactly.” She scribbled it down and thanked him.
“Good huntin’ to you. Still gives me nightmares. Maybe now Noel is dead, I can put it to rest.
If you find—that’s to say, when you find who shot the bastard, I’d be purely glad to know.”
“I’ll give you a call.”
She hung up and leaned back. The chair squeaked. Note to self, get WD-40. Tim Holiday was Branner Noel. Tried for murder, convicted, and sent to prison. Freed on a technicality, not found innocent. If the state of Texas had wanted to try him again, they could have, but after all that time, it wasn’t likely.
She let the sheriff’s information tumble around in her mind, then refilled her coffee mug and put in a call for Marvin Ward, Holiday/Noel’s attorney.
“I knew I wasn’t doing right by him,” Ward said. “I’d never tried a capital case before, you see, and I didn’t know what I was doin’. I got to tell you, I wouldn’t be that much better at it now. We just don’t get that much murder around here.”
“Why did you agree to represent him?”
“Bran wanted me to. We were friends. Nobody was eager to take him on, such a heinous crime and all. I think he didn’t believe he’d be convicted.”
“Why didn’t you file an appeal?”
“I’ve been filin’ appeals for twelve years, tryin’ to get him released. Just when I’m successful, he gets himself killed. I’m awful sorry about that. I liked him. You know who did it?”
“Not yet. What can you tell me that will help?”
A long silence. “Bran was charmin’, a good talker, easy with people, liked by the ladies despite not being movie star handsome. He was, I got to say, a con man.”
“Con man?” That surprised her.
“Yes, ma’am, I got to admit it, but only ‘cause it might help somehow.”
“Violent?” Con men generally weren’t, but there was always the possibility.
“Shocked the hell out of me when I heard what he done. I knew them all my life. Him and Mat and Deirdre and Kathleen. We was all friends. Way back through grammar school and high school. After that we weren’t so tight. I was always studyin’ too much then to do a lot of hangin’ with ’em. Maybe I lost touch.”
“Them?”
“Bran and Mat James. Always together. Another reason I kinda’ got let out; they always had money. I didn’t.”
“Where’d the money come from?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
“Are you saying they came by it illegally?”
He laughed. “That’s what I can’t tell you, but I’d be lyin’ if I said otherwise.”
“What were they doing?”
“For twelve years, I couldn’t sleep knowin’ I didn’t have the skill to defend Bran back then. Then, when I finally make some bit of atonement, I hear he’s killed. I sure am sorry, and I’m not goin’ to say anythin’ against him now to compound my first sin. No use you askin’.”
She asked anyway, then promised to let him know when she found the killer.
Receiver in her hand, she stared through the window blind at the sky that was a cold blue with not a cloud in sight. She needed Parkhurst to bounce thoughts against. Hearing the recorded voice telling her to hang up, she pressed the button, got a dial tone, and punched in his number.
“Yeah?” His voice was so thick and hoarse she barely understood him.
“Susan. I called to see how you’re doing, but I can hear you’re not so good.”
“Right. How’s the homicide investigation going?”
“Just taken a giant leap forward. Get well.”
“Right.”
She hung up. Tipping the mug, she swallowed the last of cold coffee. Mat James was a friend of Tim Holiday/Branner Noel. He’d been having an affair with Deirdre Noel. The two men had a history of shady doings. How had it come about that Mat James was only on the periphery of this investigation? Was she finally getting somewhere?
She picked up the phone.
“Yes, Susan,” Hazel said.
“Track down White, tell him to round up Mat James and bring him in.”
* * *
Mat James sat relaxed in one of the plastic chairs in the interview room. He smiled and got to his feet when she came in. “What am I doing here?” he said in a voice with no worry in it.
“A few questions, Mr. James.”
“Seems like a few questions might have waited until I got off for lunch. My whole staff thinks you’ve arrested me.”
She didn’t return his smile. “Sit down, please, Mr. James.” He chose the end of the table.
She sat at a right angle to him. White stood by the door. All pals together.
“We just learned the real identity of the dead man found in your ex-wife’s basement. Why didn’t you tell us Tim Holiday was your old pal Branner Noel?”
Mat gave her a very good imitation of startled surprise. “I assumed you knew.”
She tipped her head and raised an eyebrow.
“It hit me like a fist to the solar plexus. Bran dead. It doesn’t get to me, you know? It’s like he was gone to me when he was sent off to prison.”
Eyes closed, Mat put his fingertips on his forehead. “I guess you never really know another person. I would have bet my life he couldn’t do a thing like stabbing Deirdre.” He flashed a rueful smile. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so careless with my life.”
“A witness testified that he hit her.”
“I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it when he was found guilty and sent to prison. I couldn’t believe it when he turned up dead in Caley’s basement. I still can’t get that in my mind so it isn’t a shock when the thought comes around.”
After a second or two, she asked, “How did you know the murdered man was Branner Noel?”
“Caley told me.”
“She told you the homicide victim was Branner Noel,” Susan said.
He shook his head. “She said Holiday, the guy who came to fix the furnace.”
“And you knew Holiday was Noel—how?”
“He said he was using that name, the one time I saw him.”
“And that was—?”
“About three weeks ago.” He swallowed, swallowed again. “Could I have some water?”
Stalling for time? “Sure. You can have something else if you want. Soft drink? Coffee?”
“Just water.” He seemed completely guileless. Con men were good actors.
When White returned with a glass of water, Mat took a gulp.
“Did you keep in touch with Branner after he went to prison?” she asked.
“I wrote sporadic letters and went to see him several times. He wrote to me even more sporadically. We called back and forth a few times.”
“Did he let you know about his release from prison?”
Mat studied the water in his glass, shook it, and watched it swirl. “Yes. He called and told me. I said I’d come and pick him up, be waiting in a red convertible when he came through the gate. We’d go on a three-day drunk. He said no, he’d rather I stayed away, he needed time to be alone. He hadn’t been alone for twelve years. He wanted to think. I told him to call me when he was through thinking.
That had the ring of truth, she thought. “Why did he come to Hampstead?”
“I was completely blown away when I found out he was here.”
“How did you find out?”
“He came up to me one day when I was jogging. I didn’t recognize him until he told me who he was.”
“Why?”
Mat looked at her as though she hadn’t been keeping up with the program. “Excuse me? Why didn’t I recognize him?”
“Why did he talk to you?”
“Say hello, let me know he was free, say he was glad to see me.” Mat didn’t fidget, or scratch his leg, or glance away like people did when they were lying.
“And the two of you had a fight.”
He looked at her. “No.”
“I have a witness,” she said quietly.
“We had a conversation.”
“According to the witness, the two of you got very heated.”
“Conversations can get emotional.”
“How often did you see him after that?”
“I never saw him again. He was—he wasn’t the same Bran I knew.”
“Prison will do that,” she said.
He rested a tight circle of fingertips against his forehead, as though he had a terrible headache. “I can’t believe this. Bran dead? I just—” He took in a deep breath. “I can’t take it in. Dead. Not incarcerated in some cell somewhere.”
“Were you two working up a new scam?”
“Scam? I’m a hardworking bank manager. Banks are very conservative; they frown on employees involved in scams.” He gave her a small smile that invited her to share in the best humor he could come up with under such sad circumstances.
“Maybe he wanted his share of the profits.”
“Profits?” Mat shook his head, perplexed.
He took a look at his watch and got up. “I don’t know what that means, but I know I’ve got to get back to work. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
“Oh, I will.”
Had he and Noel gotten into an argument about the money stashed in the safe-deposit box and he’d shot Noel? Or simply shot the man to keep the money for himself?
25
Caley, seated at the kitchen table, shoved dirty breakfast dishes aside as she fumbled with the Advil bottle, almost in tears because the stupid thing wouldn’t open.
“I’ll do it, Mom.” Zach took the bottle and twisted off the cap.
“Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You are the greatest kid in the world.”
He gave her a frightened look. “Okay if I go to the library with Jo?”
“Sure. Back by—” She squinted at the clock. The numbers danced. Ten o’clock?
“I’ll be here by eight. You’ll keep the doors locked, won’t you?”
“Sure.”
He slouched out.
What was wrong with him lately? She shook out a couple of tablets and washed them down with some orange juice one of the kids had left at breakfast. Looking around the kitchen brought up loads of guilt. What a mess. The sink was piled high with dishes, the peeling linoleum was covered with crumbs and spilled breakfast cereal and sticky spots that were God knows what. Zach had been keeping the dirty dishes under control and fixing stuff like hot dogs for the Littles and generally shoveling debris out when it got too deep, but she couldn’t let him do everything. He was a kid, for God’s sake. She transferred bowls of soggy cereal to the sink, then sat back down for lack of strength. Oh God, how long did this flu go on? How long had it been now? Did it ever go away?
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