by Ann Self
He plucked out a pen and scribbled away, leaning on the file cabinet.
“And where are they now?”
Lucinda sighed heavily. She was still leaning against the map, with one arm across her body, touching the elbow of the arm she held up to her face, the cigarette in the crook of her fingers. She stroked delicately at an eyebrow with a manicured nail, her bejeweled fingers twinkling. Jane marveled that Lucinda’s sprayed curls didn’t explode into a ball of fire.
“My...father is flying back from New York this morning in his private jet. My mother is in California, but she should be back some time this morning also. She’s flying into Logan. Not sure of the time.”
“Anyone else up at the house?”
Lucinda dragged more smoke into her lungs before speaking. “Um...my Grandmother, Gladys Barrett, household help. The butler William...” The smoke rushed out around her words. Westerlund’s sandy eyebrows arched at the word butler, but his active scribbling never paused. Then his eyes suddenly attached themselves to Jane. It almost made her jump. “So,” he addressed her, “tell me right from the time you woke up in your room...” He paused to swing a look at Reggie, still recovering in the wing-chair, and then back at her, “are you claiming to have been drugged too?”
“No! I was just tired. I had a bad headache, so I went up to my room to sleep it off.” Jane waved Lucinda’s smoke from her face.
“What time was this?”
“I think about three..?” She looked questioningly at Reggie.
Westerlund suddenly left his post at the file cabinet and spoke to everyone, sweeping back the suit jacket, hands on hips, his rangy shoulders and long arms taking up a lot of office space. Jane interestedly surveyed the collection of weird equipment attached to his belt: Gun discreetly holstered on the back of his hip, almost invisible behind his wide hand, small ammunition pouches, gleaming badge...
“You can all leave the room now,” he said, “but please don’t leave the barn. I’ll take your statements individually—starting with Miss Husted.”
The crew began shuffling out the door. Westerlund watched Lucinda exiting, and mentioned that she might not want to walk around the barn with a lit cigarette. She turned and challenged him with a haughty drop-dead look, blowing a plume of smoke in his direction. She flung the cigarette on the floor and crushed it with great exaggeration. Westerlund made a bemused smile at her back as she shoved the door back hard enough to bounce it against a shelf and actually pointed her nose in the air while she flounced out.
God, he thought, what a bunch of weirdoes in this place. He swiveled around—still in the hands-on-hips mode—and snapped a look at his partner who was busy rolling his eyes and thinking the same thing.
Reggie stood up slowly, and then grasped the arm of the Ugly chair. Jane jumped up from behind Sam’s desk and raced to his side. “Are you okay Reggie?”
“Still just a little woozy. I’ll just go outside and sit on a bale of hay ‘til it passes.”
“There’s EMTs outside if you need medical attention...” The detective sounded impatient, waving residual smoke out of his face and readjusting the suit jacket.
“No young fella, I’ll be fine. That stuff takes a little longer at my age to wear off.” Reggie patted the side of Jane’s worried face, and then walked out carefully to join the people congregating in the juncture of hallways.
The office was now emptied of everyone but Jane and the two detectives. Jane shot a ferocious look at Westerlund. “I’d have his coffee cup checked to see what he was drugged with!”
“That’ll be done,” he answered with a deliberate mildness, studying her carefully, and slowly crossing his arms. He was surprised that she was so tall and could aim a fiery gaze right into his eyes. “You want to sit back down?” He asked her, adopting his best golly-gee smile.
“I prefer to stand, thank you.” Her gaze was still acid, not buying his act.
He found her small attempt at defiance amusing. They were all amusing, as if he’d wandered into the middle of a stage play. Weirder characters than Noel Coward could invent.
The chunky detective studied Jane as he leaned to one side of the old captain’s chair and laced his fingers together. She returned his look with an irritable frown. The combination of snapping gum and chair squeaking was getting on her nerves.
“Now...” Westerlund continued, as he stood facing her, basking unfazed in her wrath and still being meekly smooth, “you estimate that you went up to your room about three o’clock in the afternoon?”
“Yes...I didn’t check my watch, but that’s as close as I can get.” She turned her back on Westerlund and paced around the office, her own arms folded tightly in defiance. She eyed the heavy, seated detective as she passed his chair. He chewed and remained relaxed, no longer watching her; he seemed to be just a silent spectator. She observed that his neck rolled over his white collar.
My my...a few too many doughnuts.
She also noted his shirt wasn’t quite as white as it should be, and thought nastily that he could use a few pointers on laundry.
“Is that your apartment on the second floor of this wing? The third one down on this side?” Westerlund inquired as he returned to consult his notebook on the file cabinet, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
Jane’s face flushed and she stopped in her tracks, wondering if they went through her unlocked apartment. She tried to remember if she’d left any clothes on the floor. One little murder and these people had free rein.
“Yes,” she said, turning to face him,” it’s mine.”
“And I’m told you slept there until eleven?”
“Yes...”
“But you are sure of that time?”
“I was startled to wake up so late—I was only planning to take a quick nap—so the first thing I did was check my clock.”
“Tell me how you can be so positive that you weren’t drugged?”
“I ate at McDonald’s, then came straight here—and didn’t eat or drink another thing. The only drugs in me are a handful of aspirin.”
Westerlund looked up from leaning over the notebook on the tall file cabinet. “What did you take the aspirin with and where did you get them?”
Jane continued her slow pacing, thinking back several hours. “I stopped in at the drugstore in the little strip mall next to McDonald’s to buy the aspirin—and then took them with a strawberry milkshake.”
His expression remained taciturn, revealing nothing. “What span of time do you estimate you spent downing aspirin and milkshakes at McDonald’s?”
“My best guess for the aspirin, milkshake and fried chicken consumption—let’s be accurate on the menu—is roughly from one to two o’clock.”
“No desert?”
She glared at him, tired of the sarcasm. He flipped the notebook shut and took it with him as he wandered away from the file cabinets to lean against the front of Sam’s desk, never taking his flinty eyes off her as she nervously paced. She could sense him flicking glances at the stretch riding breeches with leather inserts and her tall black boots; something he didn’t see often.
The heavy-set detective angled his face to watch her now, his chubby squared fingers still laced like interlocking bricks. She noticed a lack of wedding ring—explaining the poor laundry job. He was also too cheap to send his shirts out. Or maybe he was supporting an ex wife and ten kids and that precluded outside laundry service. As she passed the heavy detective’s chair, Jane knew his eyes were now sliding over her, also taking in the riding outfit and boots, and she wondered what conclusions he was arriving at.
“Tell me,” Westerlund asked, rubbing his chin reflectively, and focusing on what to him were ridiculous suede strips on the inner leg of her breeches, “does anyone ever take breaks or snack on food in the hayloft?”
She stopped and watched him frowning at her wardrobe, wondering if he was going to burst out with a whinny. “The hayloft? I shouldn’t think so. It’s as hot as Hades during the day, and the dust is
awful. It also doesn’t have the fans and venting systems that the other wings have.”
Westerlund exchanged a glance with the chubby detective, and then shifted from the front of Sam’s desk to the battered wing chair, straightening the skinny tie that seemed to hang every which-way but down. Skewed to the side, flapping over his shoulder, it was a barometer of Detective Westerlund’s activity. Everything about him seemed to suggest discomfort with a suit; as if he didn’t wear it easily and would be much more at home in old jeans and a casual shirt. He lowered his wiry body gracefully into Old Ugly, seating himself in a sea of scruffy plaid and putting a foot up on the opposite knee, revealing socks the right style, color and length. No hideous gap of hairy flesh.
Point for him there, she thought. She’d hate to get a close look, though, at what the other detective had chosen for stockings. Probably black nylon, stopping just above the ankle.
Westerlund sat thinking for a moment, rapidly clicking his pen with the speed of a sewing machine, the notebook closed and resting on the fat arm of the chair, as he watched Jane pacing. He noticed her otherwise clean shirt had scrapes and smudges on the back of it.
Someone’s had a scuffle...
Jane stopped pacing and came to a landing, leaning against the front of Sam’s desk now, arms still crossed and hugging her middle, trying to quell tiny shivers coursing through her. She could feel the hefty detective still studying her from the captain’s chair, peering around the computer monitor.
“Was the vet real familiar with the barn?” Westerlund asked.
“Very.” He’s been coming here for years. Knows...knew it like the back of his hand.”
“Did he get along with everyone here—did anyone have a problem with this guy?” His eyes strayed to the spurs on Jane’s boots, and he imagined her gouging poor horses in the ribs. The fact that the spurs were short and rounded, not spiked cowboy spurs, and only used for the lightest of signals was lost on him. Spurs were spurs. If this woman has a boyfriend, he concluded, she probably chases him with a whip.
“No!” she answered him. “Bill was very likeable, he got along well with everyone.”
“Was he expected last night?”
“Not really. We called him yesterday afternoon—he had three emergency calls on the south shore and said he wouldn’t be able to get to us until this morning.” She sighed and shuddered slightly, recalling the last sight of him in the cellar. “It’s a shame he didn’t wait until then.”
“He was familiar with the second light switch then?”
“Yes...he always wanted both sets on when he was examining the mares, so there’d be less shadows.” Jane watched him determinedly writing. “What was wrong with the lights?” she asked. “Last time it was the fuse...”
“Last time?” he demanded.
“About a month ago the fuse popped on that bank of lights. It wasn’t the fuse this time, though, was it,” Jane stated.
Westerlund frowned and scribbled. “No, not a fuse.”
“And three of the bulbs in the center hallway were unscrewed…” she mused.
“What?!” he demanded again.
“Someone loosened the bulbs out there in the hallway tonight—it was very hard to see.”
Westerlund looked exasperated. “And I supposed you people just decided to fix this?”
“Yes, well, it was dangerously dark, and we didn’t want any more accidents—we were still thinking it might be an accident—so we got the stepladder and screwed them back in.”
“Well, that’s just fine and dandy,” he spat, throwing his head back and sighing, then swacking roughly at the notebook with the pen, as if to jar his thoughts back into order.
“Sorry…” she offered lamely. The chubby detective shook his head.
“Well,” Westerlund groused, “maybe we can still salvage some prints off them if you haven’t completely destroyed the evidence. Whose hands actually tightened the bulbs?”
“Ah, Sam did that,” she answered, feeling as if she were offering Sam’s head up on a platter. But better they knew why Sam’s prints would show up on the bulbs.
“Does Sam stay here overnight?” he questioned her.
“No, he leaves at five…”
“But yet he was here when the locals arrived on the scene. You called him before you dialed 911?”
“Sam is in charge of the barn—and he lives just two minutes away. I called him, and then immediately dialed the police. I was just in a daze, in shock, and not thinking too clearly.”
His expression told her he agreed she didn’t think clearly, making her want to smack him. She watched him writing determinedly, a grim set to his mouth. Probably writing down just how dumb I was, she decided.
Her gaze was drawn to the Detective’s left-hand ring finger when he rested it on the arm of Old Ugly, and saw it was also vacant of a wedding ring. Did no one want to marry or stay married to these people? She was acutely embarrassed when he caught her staring at the ring finger—he was a detective after all—she’d have to be far more careful. She wanted to jump up and proclaim her total lack of interest, but there was just no clever way to work it into the conversation.
“So...” he asked her, switching gears, “that trap door was supposed to be kept shut. No one remembers opening it for any reason?”
“No! It was definitely supposed to stay shut.”
He looked at her. “Someone opened it—and left it open.”
“Well, I don’t know who that would be. It’s like asking for trouble.”
“Or hoping.” He clicked his pen rapidly again, focusing his thoughts. Then he asked: “Any reason the vet didn’t use the big door at the end of the south wing? That was where his patient was, after all. Why did he come in through the small west wing door?”
“As I’m sure you saw, the south wing door is a giant heavy thing that descends on rollers. It’s padlocked at night—only the Whitbecks and barn staff have keys.”
“So—if someone wanted to steal horses, they’d have to squeeze them one at a time out little doors...”
“Right. And one of the few little doors unlocked in the evening is the one near Reggie’s room—on the south side of this west wing.”
“West wings—east doors—south doors, this barn is like a monkey puzzle!” He sighed and then asked: “Why is it, since you also know this barn like the back of your hand, that you didn’t go for that second switch? It would seem natural.”
“I did.”
“But yet you didn’t end up falling through the trap door.”
“I would have, if I didn’t smell that awful musty cellar odor.”
He stopped writing and looked up sharply at her. “That was enough to warn you? In the dark—when you were just thinking about finding some light?”
“It was. I had noticed a few weeks ago...the trap door had been recently opened and the nails pried out. I was curious, so I opened it up and was horrified at how the dank stink of the cellar got sucked up through the hole.”
“When exactly was that? When did you decide the trap door had been opened, and what made you notice?”
She shifted her position against the front of Sam’s desk as she recalled the event. “It was...about a month ago.”
“Same time the fuse was blown?”
She looked startled. “Yes—actually it was! It was the night of Lucinda’s birthday party!” Jane felt a little stupid, as if she’d been caught napping in class. Two occurrences that at the time had seemed unrelated were obviously connected. “I never...didn’t realize...” she stammered lamely, dropping her arms to her side.
Westerlund dismissed this. “Don’t worry about it. Hindsight has amazing clarity.” His eyes wandered to the scratches on the back of her right hand as he asked another question: “You didn’t tell me what made you realize the trap door had been opened that first time. It wasn’t left open..?”
“No, whoever opened it closed it again—but the door was so clean. It made a clean square on the floor. The only way it
gets so clean is to pick it up and drop it down. Jars all the dust off it. And someone obviously worked hard to take out all those big nails...”
“Got it—I get the picture,” Westerlund interrupted. He stopped writing, leaned his chin against his hand and looked up at her again from the chair, with the squint that reminded her of Madeline. “Pretty sharp that you noticed the smell and put it together before falling in the hole. So...no ideas on who might’ve opened the trap door?”
“I really can’t say. I forgot to check with Sam to find out if there was a reason to open it. If I hadn’t been stopped by that musty smell tonight, I’d have stepped right into that hole, and you’d be investigating two bodies.”
“Yeah, we’d have a human shish kabob down there.”
Jane didn’t find that funny, but he didn’t expect her to. He closed the notebook, leaned his elbow on the wing chair and drummed fingers against his mouth for a moment, deep in thought. He spoke almost to himself: “So no one really expected the vet to show up tonight...and no one harbored any animosity towards him.” Then his eyes suddenly jumped back to Jane again, and he asked: “What prompted you to go the south wing so late?”
“I’ve been worried about the mare that Bill—the veterinarian—was going to examine. When I got up I saw his truck from my window and I wanted to talk to him. Besides, I always check the broodmares every night without fail...”
They locked eyes, as the significance of her last remark hit home. Her heart slammed as if trying to escape her rib cage. Of course, the trap wasn’t meant for Bill.
The chubby detective suddenly stood up (without the chair). Adjusting his wide beltline, he stepped closer and exchanged another fleeting glance with Westerlund. “This is Sergeant Russell,” Westerlund introduced him.
Jane nodded. She still leaned against the desk front.
Russell got as close as he could get without stepping on her feet. He stuffed fingertips in his pants pockets, and slashed hard brown eyes over her, skipping any pleasant chit-chat. Russell chewed gum like a machine and smelled like ancient smoke—he had recently quit smoking but his clothes hadn’t. He also radiated a mixture of several old colognes. She wasn’t quite sure what Westerlund smelled like, since he wasn’t one to broach personal space like his partner.