Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “Anyway,” she continued, “soon after the movie had finished, I went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee when I looked out my kitchen window. I noticed Mr. Steiner’s back door was wide open, which was odd, but I really didn’t give it much thought. I often see him head out on his morning run, but didn’t see him leave his house this time as I drank my coffee in front of the large plate-glass window in the living room. Later on that morning, after I fixed myself a late breakfast and was washing the dishes at about eleven-forty-five, I looked out the kitchen window again and noticed Mr. Steiner’s door was still open. His newspaper was still in the driveway, which was extremely odd, since I often see him retrieving his paper at about seven. When I looked back at his house and saw that he hadn’t opened up the blinds over his kitchen sink, I got really concerned and decided to go over and check on him.”

  Bonnie stopped to take a couple of sips of coffee, and wipe her mouth with a napkin. So far her story was consistent with the report she’d given the detectives. I was so relieved she was having a good day and seemed to be experiencing no ill effects of the Alzheimer’s she was cursed with. She gazed off to a spot to the left of the kitchen table, which put her staring approximately at the trashcan for several long seconds, before Harold nudged her. He hadn’t said a word since letting us into the house.

  “Bonnie?” I asked. She was either reflecting back on the horrific event or gathering her thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Go on with your story,” I prompted her.

  “Oh, yes. Now what was I saying?”

  “You were telling us how you decided to go over and check on Mr. Steiner.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “As you know, I found him dead, lying flat on the floor, stretched out on his back. I could tell he wasn’t breathing so I checked for a pulse and found none. He was quite pale and stiff and I knew it was too late to resuscitate him, so I called that number you call in an emergency. What’s that number again?”

  “Nine-one-one,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, of course, I called nine-one-one.”

  “And what else do you recall? Did anything seem out of place? Any obvious signs of a struggle, chairs overturned, broken dishes, or anything like that? Maybe a fireplace poker, or a cast iron frying pan lying on the floor, or anything else that could have been used to strike him on the back of the head?”

  “Not that I recall, but I really wasn’t aware at the time he’d been murdered, so I wasn’t looking for any signs of Mr. Steiner having been assaulted. I just assumed he’d suffered a massive coronary, or something of that nature. And besides that, I’m sure I’ve already told the police department everything I can remember.”

  “I’m sure you have, Bonnie, but you might want to take notes as you think back and remember something, even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant, detail. Then you’ll have the information to turn over to the police, or to Stone and me, if you prefer,” I said. “Unfortunately, the person who calls for help is often considered a prime suspect until proven otherwise.”

  Bonnie looked alarmed, and Harold looked angry. I’d ticked him off again without even trying. Bonnie went back to staring at the trashcan, with her lower lip quivering slightly. I hadn’t really meant to upset either of them, but I sometimes spoke without giving much thought to what I was saying. Okay, I often spoke without giving my words much thought.

  Without turning to look at me, Bonnie, asked, “Do the police think I killed Thurman?”

  “No, of course not,” Stone said, giving me a look of annoyance. Jeez, I’d managed to piss off everyone in the room with just a few short words. Stone tried to ease the anxiety my words had caused both of the Bloomingfields. “I’m sure you’ve already been cleared of any suspicion in the murder. I’m sure the investigators no longer view you as a suspect.”

  Stone’s words seem to have an even bigger effect on the Bloomingfields than my own had. Now Stone looked annoyed at himself for the way he’d phrased his statement to Bonnie. They were meant to be words of comfort, I knew, but had obviously had the opposite effect.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Bonnie said. It was evident we’d triggered the effects of Alzheimer’s in Bonnie’s mind. “Did I murder Mr. Steiner? I really think I must have. I don’t remember it, but I have these forgetful spells, you see. Oh, my goodness! What have I done? I didn’t mean to kill the pastor. How could I do such a terrible thing? What’s going to happen to me now?”

  Bonnie began to weep, and we left Harold to deal with her after we were escorted out of the house. The door definitely slammed behind us this time, and Howard didn’t invite us back.

  * * *

  Wyatt stopped by the inn about an hour later. I automatically sat a platter full of cream-filled pastries down in front of him. Wyatt informed us that the Bloomingfields had come down to the police station because Mr. Bloomingfield had wanted to file a complaint against the “crime scene investigators” who’d come to their house to ask questions. Wyatt had immediately suspected me, but was surprised to hear Stone had gone along with the idea. He thought Stone had more sense than that, he said around a mouth full of cream cheese and strawberry jam. I assumed it was Wyatt’s way of saying I had absolutely no sense at all, and Stone was gradually being dragged down to my level. I didn’t appreciate the insinuation, but I kept quiet. I noticed Stone looked quite a bit embarrassed by Wyatt’s reaction to his involvement in the matter.

  “I knew better,” Stone said. “I apologize for getting involved, Wyatt. I knew I couldn’t prevent Lexie from going over there, and didn’t want her to go alone. But, I promise you we never claimed to be crime scene investigators, per se.”

  Wyatt rolled his eyes dramatically and then went on to tell us that while Harold was filling out a complaint form, Bonnie Bloomingfield had walked over to the chief of police, stuck both her hands out in front of her, as if waiting for them to be cuffed. She told him she’d come to turn herself in for killing Pastor Steiner. She confessed to having no idea why she’d decided to kill him, and had no real recollection of doing so. But she seemed certain she was guilty of the crime.

  Wyatt stopped chewing and turned to look me directly in the eyes. “What have you done this time, Lexie?”

  “Well, you see,” I stammered. “Bonnie has Alzheimer’s and gets confused, and she forgets a lot of things. I’m afraid we might have accidentally misled her into thinking she was responsible for Thurman Steiner’s death. It was certainly not our intention.”

  “Harold told us about the Alzheimer’s,” Wyatt said. “Do you honestly believe Bonnie could’ve actually had something to do with Steiner’s murder? Harold stated he was out of town, attending a college graduation and visiting family in Knob Noster. The detectives really don’t suspect Bonnie of the crime, but reasoned she could have become completely confused, particularly if home alone at the time, and convinced herself she needed to kill him for some reason. We can’t overlook any possibility, no matter how remote and irrational it may seem. Bonnie might now have no recollection of her actions that morning. No one can fathom how she could have the strength to perform such an act. But she was the one who found him and reported his death, which automatically makes her a suspect.”

  “That’s what I told her, which is what confused her into thinking she was the killer. But, no, she couldn’t have killed him. I’m almost certain of that.”

  “How do you know that for sure? I agree I can’t imagine how someone of her age, and in her physical condition, could have taken down the pastor, even though he was not a very large man and could have been taken completely off guard. Stranger things have happened and, like I said, we have to look at every possibility. So what makes you so certain Bonnie couldn’t possibly have harmed Steiner?” Wyatt asked.

  “Bonnie told me she’d watched the movie The Day After early that morning. I checked the TV guide and it really had been playing on HBO between four and six-thirty. It was during that period of time that Nate estimated Thurman had been killed. I can
’t see Bonnie leaving her home in the middle of a movie she’s interested in to go commit a murder, and then return to her home to watch the remainder of the film. It’s just not logical. If Bonnie were experiencing one of her confused and forgetful episodes, she surely wouldn’t have been able to focus enough to concentrate on a movie and then remember any of the details about it at a later time. At least I wouldn’t think she could.”

  “There are usually a lot of things that aren’t logical surrounding a crime of this nature. But how do you know she really watched the movie?” Wyatt asked.

  “I’m no expert on Alzheimer’s, but she gave me accurate details about the movie that she most likely wouldn’t have remembered if she’d watched it years ago, or even probably a week ago. Even now she may be losing memories of the movie due to the Alzheimer’s. It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “Yes,” Wyatt agreed. “But Harold told us Bonnie could recite stories of events that happened forty or fifty years ago almost verbatim, but couldn’t remember what she’d had for lunch by suppertime. Alzheimer’s can cause a person to have a very selective memory.”

  I nodded. “I know that to be true, Wyatt. My grandfather had Alzheimer’s and spoke in detail about a German shepherd he once owned as a child, but he didn’t recognize any of us, even Grandma. As Harold told us, this entire incident has had a very adverse affect on his wife, which caused her Alzheimer’s to be even more pronounced than usual. For her to relate such specific details about the movie, I feel like she had to have just seen it. And talking about seeing Thurman’s door being open, his newspaper in the drive, and so on, it almost definitely had to have occurred, or she’d have been unable to give the authorities any statement at all.”

  “We hadn’t cast much suspicion on her anyway. So, yes, I believe you’re probably right.”

  “She is, Wyatt,” Stone said. “I truly believe Bonnie Bloomingfield could no more have killed Thurman Steiner than you or I could have. She was just having one of her bad days again today, I’m afraid. As Lexie told you, we didn’t mean to mislead her. I knew at the time I agreed to accompany Lexie that I would come to regret the decision. I’ll use more discretion next time. I should have learned that by now.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Stone. I know how persuasive Lexie can be. And I know you didn’t intend to mislead Mrs. Bloomingfield. The conclusion you’ve come to is pretty much what the investigating team determined too,” Wyatt said.

  Stone ran his fingers through his silver hair, and continued, “I can understand why the trauma of finding Thurman’s body would trigger a setback with the Alzheimer’s. I sure hope this setback is reversible, and not a permanent infliction. I feel so bad for Bonnie, and Harold too, of course.”

  “It goes without saying that we all do. While Mrs. Bloomingfield was at the station the chief had me take a set of her fingerprints, which I personally thought was unnecessary. Naturally, this upset her again, making her even more certain she was about to be arrested for murder. It kind of irked Harold too. But her prints did match a couple of the one’s found in Steiner’s kitchen, which is not at all unexpected, since she was the person who found him dead and would have naturally touched a few items while reaching for the phone to call nine-one-one. That only leaves a couple of fingerprints left that haven’t been accounted for yet, and no matches were found on IAFIS, the national database of prints,” Wyatt said. He paused to snatch another cream-filled Danish off the pastry platter, and then continued.

  “One last thing before I have to leave. A citizen on Cedar Street, just about two blocks from the pastor’s house, called in to the police department to report a vehicle being parked in front of his house numerous times in the last couple of months. Most often it’s parked there in the afternoon, generally around three-thirty to five-thirty or so. The concerned citizen had never seen the driver, but said the morning of the murder was the first time he’d ever seen it parked in front of his house early in the morning. He couldn’t recall the exact time, but thought it could have been there at five. A noise outside had awakened him and he’d gone to the front door to look out. That’s when he noticed the car, and thought it was an unusual time for it to be parked there.”

  “Do you think the car is connected to the murder?” Stone asked his friend.

  “We have no way to determine that at this point, but we’re looking for the owner of a black Ford Mustang, maybe two or three years old. Just to question him, of course. We have nothing to connect him to the crime, and it’s probably unrelated, but still worth checking in to. Sometimes the most insignificant clue proves to be the turning point in solving a crime. And, like I said, we have to look at every possibility.”

  “Let us know if you find out anything,” I said. “And I’ll let you know if I happen to hear anything about the black Mustang or the driver of that car.”

  Wyatt nodded, rolled his eyes at Stone again, polished off his pastry in two bites, and gulped down his last swig of coffee. He turned to look at me and said, “I suppose it’s a waste of time to try to convince you to stay out of this investigation, Lexie. I know how stubborn and impulsive you can be. But can you at least promise me you’ll stop impersonating a member of the police squad? I can only protect you so much. The chief considered bringing you in to the station this time, but I was able to dissuade him. I might not be able to do that next time though, because his patience is wearing thin. And, believe me, you don’t want to be on the chief’s bad side.”

  I promised. It was the least I could do for him keeping me out of trouble with the police department–twice! Wyatt stayed long enough to wolf down four or five more pastries and then excused himself to go back on patrol. I couldn’t believe what a mess I’d made of things where the Bloomingfields were concerned. I’d certainly never meant to upset them or convince Bonnie she’d had anything to do with the crime. Alzheimer’s was such a terrible disease. I vowed to tread more lightly in the future. I didn’t want to cause anybody else any unnecessary grief.

  * * *

  It didn’t take me long after Wyatt left to get a list of all the black Mustang owners in Rockdale. I placed a call to the local Department of Motor Vehicles, and was greeted by a pleasant female voice. I knew it was illegal to impersonate a police officer, but felt sure there was no law preventing me from pretending to be a gas station attendant.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” I said. “I’m Brenda Burns, and I work for Rusty’s gas station here in Rockdale. We just had a customer drive off without paying for his gasoline. Now we’ve got to try and track him down to collect the money, and possibly press charges. Can I get a list of all the owners of black Mustangs in town? I’m sure you’ve had to do this hundreds of times.”

  “No, actually I’ve never been asked by a gas station attendant for this kind of information before, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Really? I’m shocked. Oh, and we’ll also need their addresses.”

  “I’m not allowed to give out addresses, Ms. Burns. Strict policy. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. I wasn’t too concerned about it because I knew that was why God had invented phone books. Calling the Mustang owners might prove faster and easier than visiting them, anyway. And safer, I had to admit to myself, even though I rarely let the lack of safety stop me. I’d surely be much better off if I did.

  “I can give you all the owners’ names in the county if you prefer, but it would be a longer list,” the lady told me. “A lot longer, actually. There are quite a few black Mustang owners in this county for some reason.”

  “I’ll just take the list of owners in town. For now, we’re going on the assumption it was a local driving the car, since Rockdale is kind of off the beaten path, not on a major freeway or anything. I’ll call you back if everyone on this shorter list checks out.”

  “How will you know if they check out okay?” She asked, purely out of curiosity, I could tell. I hadn’t thought this plan out that far so I winged it. I had the innate ability to make u
p crap at the drop of a pin.

  “They pumped twenty-two gallons of gas, so we should be able to tell by how full the gas tanks are in their Mustangs. If they’ve only got half a tank, we can assume they didn’t just fill their tank up. A full tank indicates a recent fill-up.” Suddenly it occurred to me that a car the size of a Mustang probably didn’t even have a large enough fuel capacity to hold twenty-two gallons. Hopefully this young woman did not know enough about cars to even question their fuel capacities. The receptionist’s voice sounded like as if it belonged to a girl in her early twenties. I figured her to be the driver of a Volkswagen bug or Mini-Cooper, not a Ford Mustang.

  “That makes sense,” she replied, even though I knew it didn’t. I would guess she cared more about the newest high-heeled pumps available at Nordstrom’s than gas pumps at Rusty’s gas station, and how much you could pump into any given gas tank.

  “Of course it’s only logical,” I agreed. “I’m ready for that list of black Mustang owners whenever you are.”

  “Okay, hold on while I bring it up on my computer. It takes a couple minutes to get into that program. These antique computers are terribly slow. Someone needs to raise taxes so the DMV can afford to buy us more current equipment. I used a more sophisticated computer in my kindergarten computer lab than I use here at work.”

  Yep, I thought, early twenties. This gal grew up with computers. I used a crayon and construction paper when I was in kindergarten, not a mouse and a modem.

  “I’d rather have to wait a few minutes than pay higher taxes. Our taxes are high enough as it is,” I said. While I waited I poured myself a cup of coffee and started the dishwasher. The breakfast dishes needed to be washed before I got busy doing other chores. I’d served spinach omelets with sausage links, at around eight o’clock, but we’d left for the Bloomingfields before I’d had an opportunity to rinse off the dishes and place them in the dishwasher. I’d burnt the cheese and made a mess out of the skillet, so it was now soaking in the sink. I was pretty sure it was a lost cause. Another expensive skillet had bitten the dust.