by Cassie Miles
“You’ll do fine.” His phone pinged, indicating a new text message, and he crossed the library to stand in front of the fireplace while he read it and answered.
Martha Ingram composed herself. Her bony fingers laced in a knot on the tabletop. “Go ahead, dear.”
“Does Chloe have your correct address and phone number?”
“I’m sure she does. George and I haven’t moved or changed the number in twenty years. It was always our dream to retire to the mountains. Back then, we were both avid skiers.”
Vanessa listened politely while Martha launched into a monologue about how skiing had gotten too expensive and the crowds were too big loud and aggressive. The longer she talked, the more heated her language became, leading to a pattern of curse, apologize, curse, apologize, then curse, curse, curse. She had a weird habit of playing with her long gray braid, pulling it over one shoulder and then the other. Bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks.
“Are you all right, Martha?” Vanessa reached for the glass pitcher on the table. “Should I pour you a glass of water?”
“Yes, damn it. Oh, I’m sorry. Damn, damn, damn.”
“Only one more question,” Vanessa said. “Where were you between six thirty and eight?”
“I don’t know.”
This interview was a disaster. “Do you remember when Sheriff Coleman and I saw you earlier tonight? We were near the swimming pool.”
“Yes,” she said brightly. “I was looking for George.”
“Where were you before that?”
“In our bedroom, taking a nap.”
“And after?”
Martha’s forehead scrunched. “I wandered downstairs. The Castle is so big that I tend to get lost and wander. But I heard voices.”
“You said you wanted a drink,” Vanessa prompted.
“Now I recall.” She snapped her fingers. “I went outside to the patio, found George and got a Manhattan from the bartender.”
“Good job, Martha. That’s all I need to know.”
When Ty joined them at the table and patted the older woman’s scrawny arm, Martha calmed. She gazed warmly at the sheriff, flipped her braid and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. It’s not right but might be something you need to know.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Ingram,” he assured her. “You don’t have to tell us anything else. This is just a preliminary interview. Tomorrow, the agents from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation will go into detail.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to talk to those Denver people—those flatlanders.” She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin. “I don’t want them poking around in my business.”
“What business is that?”
“I don’t care about rumors, don’t care about what people are saying. My husband is a good man. George would never be disloyal to me.”
Vanessa remembered that when they first saw Martha, she looked like she’d been crying. Did she actually suspect her husband of having an affair? The man had to be in his seventies. “I’m sure he’s faithful, Martha. How long have you been married? Thirty-five or forty years?”
“He doesn’t look like a philanderer.” She quietly cursed. “For your information, dear, my George is a silver fox. There’s snow on the roof, but he’s got a fire in his belly.”
Vanessa wasn’t about to argue with that statement. She nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m his second wife, you know. Fifteen years younger than George, and I was quite a beauty when we hooked up. I was blond like Bethany.” She bolted to her feet, cursed and apologized. “Everybody in town knows that she’s been having an affair.”
Ty stood beside her. He didn’t have an expressive face, but she could tell that he was surprised by Martha’s statement. He cleared his throat. “Who told you about the affair?”
“I don’t remember. Somebody in the diner or at the church.”
“And did they tell you it was George?”
“Absolutely not. Nobody knows the name of her lover, but you can bet your booties that he’s married and a big fat cheater.”
“Thanks for the information, Mrs. Ingram.” He guided her toward the door. “I’m going to have Deputy Randall escort you to your room. I want you to go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
As soon as the door closed behind her, Ty leaned his back against it and exhaled in a whoosh. His shoulders sagged. “That was a whole lot more than I wanted to hear.”
“But it’s important. If Bethany was having an affair, that gives people a reason to want her dead.”
“A motive,” he said. “But can we believe what Mrs. Ingram said?”
“We can’t ignore it.”
He shrugged. “We’ll pass on the recordings to the CBI.”
She didn’t understand his reluctance. Not that she was a detective, but Vanessa had seen enough movies and read enough books to know that motive was vital to crime solving. Ty ought to be formulating plans to dig deeply into Bethany’s possible indiscretions. “We need to check this out,” she said. “Maybe she was killed by her lover to protect his reputation.”
“Or by his wife to save her marriage.”
“His wife?” When Vanessa visualized murder by clubbing someone over the head, she thought of brute force. “Would a woman have the strength?”
“Macy Kirov is a big strong woman—a former professional skier.” Ty stepped away from the door and paced into the center of the library. “Gloria Gable works out every day to keep that sleek supermodel figure. Chloe Markham is in good shape.”
His logic encouraged her. She could tell that he’d been thinking about suspects. “You should stay with me while I finish these interviews. These people are more comfortable with you. They’ll open up.”
“I’m not in charge. The murder isn’t my jurisdiction.”
“But you’re the sheriff, and the Castle sits in the middle of Tremont County.”
“I ceded authority to Agent Morris of the CBI. He’s in charge, and he already sent over a team from Aspen to remove the body, take fingerprints and DNA samples.”
“That cop from Aspen. What was his name? Jenkins?”
“His name is Jack.” Ty approached her, placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “We have to cooperate with these guys. They’re experienced. They’ve got the tools and know how to use them.”
Their physical connection felt warm and secure, calming and exciting at the same time. Her natural inclination was to glide her hands around his torso and pull him toward her until they made full body contact and melted against each other. Inappropriate? Totally!
She tossed her head and forced a smile. “I’ll get back to my interviews.”
“Not a good idea,” he said. “I shouldn’t have given you this assignment in the first place. You’re not a cop. I shouldn’t have put you in danger.”
“But I’m fine, and I want to be involved.”
“When you told me about your stalker back in Denver, I advised you to report that kind of danger to me. I’m a sheriff. It’s my job to protect you.”
Though she liked the idea of Ty being her protector, Vanessa was far from helpless. “I haven’t been threatened.”
“You can’t ignore facts, Vanessa. Someone in this house is a murderer.”
She was aware of the probability that the person who killed Bethany was one of the dinner guests. But they had no motive to come after her. She liked being involved in the investigation and despised the idea of sitting around, doing nothing and twiddling her thumbs. “I’ll be fine.”
“Your next interview is with the most likely suspect.”
She thought for a moment. “I know who that is.”
“Tell me.”
“If Bethany was having an affair, the man with the strongest motive f
or revenge is her husband. Plus, the police always look to the spouse. It’s Lowell Burke.”
“And I should keep an eye on him.” Ty poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. “I’ll stay.”
Chapter Six
Water glass in hand, Ty paced around the perimeter of the library, which he had decided was his favorite place in the Castle—not the swimming pool or the secret passage, not the game room, certainly not the tragic bedroom on the floor below where Bethany had been murdered. Vanessa’s library had a warm, cozy feeling, probably because she spent time here and the library reflected her personality: organized, quiet and comfortable.
He paused at the end of the table that was opposite from where Vanessa had her recording equipment. Outside the three tall casement windows, a fierce wind tossed the pine branches like a typhoon churning in troubled seas. Nature was giving him a warning.
Every person in the house was a suspect. Worse, they were all in danger from the killer. Vanessa’s position was the most precarious because she was the only guest with a private bedroom. If the killer attacked, she had nowhere to hide, no one to help. Before he left tonight, he’d make sure she was safely locked in her room.
Lowell Burke entered the library. Ty tried to work up a decent amount of empathy for the recently widowed man but couldn’t get past his prissy attitude or his narcissism.
An hour ago, when Ty had informed Burke that his wife was dead, the well-dressed lawyer reacted with a credible display of shock. His knees folded, he collapsed into a chair and slouched over, holding his head in his hands. His cheeks were wet with tears. When he wiped his face with a tissue, it was obvious that Burke was wearing makeup—a trend Ty hoped wouldn’t catch on. A lot of men wanted to look like they’d just come from the golf course or from schussing down the slopes on a perfect spring day, but they didn’t take part in sports. Instead, they used spray tans or foundation makeup.
Burke had taken the time to repair his mottled cheeks, creating a smooth mask that wasn’t fooling anybody. His level of tension was through the roof. If twisted one notch higher, the nervous lawyer might explode. He’d changed his shirt and trousers. Ty made a mental note to have one of his deputies locate the clothes Burke had been wearing earlier and check for bloodstains.
Burke asked, “What’s this about, Sheriff?”
“Just a quick interview to gather name, address and phone numbers. Tomorrow, Agent Morris of the CBI will take over. Vanessa and I are just getting the preliminaries out of the way.” Ty paused for a moment, watching Burke for his reaction. “There’s no need for you to call your lawyer. Not yet, anyway.”
“Are you implying that I’m a suspect?”
Too subtle? “I’m not implying anything.”
“Go to hell, Sheriff.” He pivoted and took a step toward the door. “I’ll talk to the real detectives tomorrow.”
“Oh, please,” Vanessa said. “Sit down, Burke. At least you can allow me to verify your name and address.”
He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Why should I?”
“Because you want to do anything to help find Bethany’s killer. Otherwise—” she paused for effect “—it looks bad.”
Since he couldn’t argue with that, he dropped into the chair beside her and crumpled like a painted marionette with cut strings. He whined. “Nobody understands how hard it is to lose a beloved spouse. How will I go on?”
Ty sipped his water and said nothing while Vanessa comforted and consoled. She even called down to the kitchen to request a fresh-brewed cup of chamomile tea for the grieving husband. When she started with her questions, Burke stretched every response into an essay. He couldn’t say what his address was because he and Bethany had lost their house in LA and were having mail forwarded to the Castle. Did she want his post office box? The one in LA? The one in Aspen?
Finally, Vanessa got to the meat of the interview. “Where were you between six thirty and eight?”
“My alibi?” Burke shot a hostile glance at Ty. “Waiting in the game room to meet Keith. That was where the two of you found me and suggested that I look for him in the kitchen, which was exactly what I did. We had a brief chat. You can verify with Keith. Then I went outside to the patio where I talked with Chloe and Gloria. And, of course, Macy and Yuri, my clients.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Vanessa said, “what kind of work are you doing for Macy and Yuri Kirov?”
“Real estate, which is my specialty. They want to buy Simplicity and a few other properties in the area.”
“That must be complicated work,” she said. “Was that transaction the reason Bethany was so riled up and talking about millions of dollars?”
“She had everything tangled with Aunt Dorothy’s death and her estate. That story is ancient history based on gossip and fantasy. There are no missing millions.”
“And she thought she was due an inheritance,” Vanessa said. “Why?”
“Bethany never explained herself in rational detail.” His voice softened. “I was the sensible partner, and she was the dreamer.”
“Are you certain that she didn’t know anything?”
“She was obsessed.”
“As a lawyer, you don’t need to believe in a fairy-tale payoff,” Vanessa said. “Your commission on the sale of Simplicity ought to be substantial.”
“And I will have earned every penny with my skill and expertise.”
“There’s nothing like an honest day’s work.”
Ty grinned at Vanessa. He’d heard the sarcasm in her tone—a nuance that flew over Burke’s head. It was amazing that the shifty lawyer actually thought his manipulations and documents equated with real work.
One of the guys from the kitchen came into the library with a tray holding a steaming mug of tea. Burke stood and made a twirling motion with his index finger to indicate that the man with the tray should turn around. “We’re done here, right?”
“I believe so,” Vanessa said.
After the door closed behind Burke, Ty scooted down the table and sat beside her as she pressed Stop on the recording. “Good interview, lady. I especially like the way you managed to talk to him without giving him a smack on the jaw when he meandered off the topic. You’re very patient.”
“I’ve had plenty of practice listening to Simon’s stories for his memoir. He and Burke are both egomaniacs.”
“Narcissists,” he said.
“I also taught high school English for four years, which gave me experience in dealing with the adolescent mind.”
Ty stuck his hand into the pocket of his blazer and wound the gold chain around his fingers. He shouldn’t be touching the necklace. This was evidence, but he glided his thumb over the etched design on the front of the locket—a heart with an arrow that circled it.
He should have checked for prints as soon as he took the necklace from Bethany’s hand. Too late now. “From what Burke said, Bethany was obsessed with Aunt Dorothy.”
“Much as I hate to agree with Burke, I think he’s right about the many variations on the Dorothy story. It’s based on rumor and fantasy.”
“Tell me about her disappearance.”
“I don’t know much. My family—Dad, Mom and I—were estranged from Dorothy and Simon twenty years ago. Five years later, Mom died. After that, my father spent all his time traveling, writing poetry, teaching a college seminar and ignoring all things Whitman. Twelve years ago, Dorothy went out for a ride on her horse and never returned.”
“How old were you?” he asked.
“A freshman in college at Northwestern in Chicago. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t come back for the memorial service.”
“You said she disappeared. Was her body found?”
“There were many days of searching. It was the beginning of winter and a blizzard made it impossible to continue the search. After the spring thaw, her r
emains were found. Doc Ingram declared her dead.”
“George Ingram?” Ty shouldn’t have been surprised to hear the coroner’s name. “Are we talking about the silver fox?”
She nodded. “Apparently, they discovered enough of her remains to make a DNA identification.”
“No signs of foul play?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “None that I know of. I like this change in attitude. You sound like a detective.”
“I am, in fact, the sheriff of this county.” He didn’t have training in forensics or profiling or cyber investigation, but he had sworn an oath to take care of the over twelve thousand residents of Tremont County. If that meant calling upon experts, he’d do it. If there were pieces of this murder that he could solve himself, Ty was ready. “I’m asking again. Any reason to believe that Aunt Dorothy was murdered?”
“From what I’ve heard, that’s where the rumors kick in.” She stood behind the table, rolled her shoulders and flexed her arms. “Some people blamed Simon for Dorothy’s disappearance, which they said was an accident that could have been avoided if he’d gone with her on her ride or initiated the search earlier. Others called it a tragic mishap when she was thrown from her horse, suffered a concussion and died. Most people believed that the local scavengers pulled her body apart. On the opposite end of the spectrum, there were people who believed Dorothy was murdered.”
“By her husband?”
“Simon would be the logical suspect.” She stretched again and yawned. “The money he inherited from Dorothy’s estate, including property and possessions, was enough to refinance Simplicity and to start up the Simple Simon’s franchises.”
All those pieces added up to a ton of motive. Ty watched as she went to the tall window and rested her slender fingers against the pane as though she could reach through the transparent glass and touch the wind. Her mood was pensive and magical. “You don’t think Simon killed her.”
“If I believed he was a murderer, I couldn’t work for him.” She spun around and faced him. “Simon is an irritating person. Like you said, a narcissist. But he loved Dorothy. My father didn’t care for either of them, but he respected their relationship, and he wasn’t surprised when he heard that Simon had sealed off Dorothy’s sewing room. That’s the act of a desperate and heartbroken man.”