by Abigail Keam
“Drake is not going to like this,” Kelly said. “Josiah’s not trained.”
“The police hire outside their venue all the time—anthropologists and entomologists, to name a few. I bring a unique perspective. After all, I am an art history professor.”
Kelly shot back, “You were a professor.”
“In which interrogation room is he?” Hunter asked, referring to Drake.
“B,” Kelly answered.
“Follow me. I know the way,” I said, “since they have me down here every week it seems.”
Hunter and I went into the observation room of Room B and found that Drake had already started his questioning of Chase Landau perched on the hot seat. I took a seat next to Hunter who was already making notes on a legal pad.
Drake said, “Let me express my condolences on the death of your father.”
So the old geezer had finally thrown in the towel.
Chase replied, “Save it. I want to go on record that searching our house and forcing me to come down here on the day of my father’s death, not to mention Thanksgiving, is a despicable and disgusting trick.”
“Noted,” Drake said, “but I want it noted that I’m missing Thanksgiving with my family as well.”
“Then let’s do this tomorrow. My mother needs me.”
Drake ignored Chase’s last statement and plowed on. “Were you aware a body was buried on property owned by your father, King Landau?”
“I was not aware of any dead body as I was not even aware my family owned that land.”
“It was the Landau’s family farm. You claim you had never gone there. Didn’t know it existed?” Drake asked.
“My father never talked about the past and never mentioned this property. The fact that a woman was found buried on his farm is as shocking to him as it was to me, Detective. Let me ask one thing here. How do you know that the woman didn’t die of natural causes and was buried there because her family didn’t have to money to have a proper funeral?”
Drake pulled out a picture of a hammer and laid it before Chase. “Have you ever seen this hammer before?”
Chase glanced at the picture. “No.”
“Take a good look. Did your father own a hammer like this?”
“I do not use hand tools nor did my father. We have staff who make repairs on our properties, including our personal home. Perhaps you should ask one of our workers.”
“Did your father ever mention a woman named Dixie Orr Landau?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Is that the woman’s name buried on the farm?”
“Yes.”
“Never heard of her.” Chase folded his arms defiantly.
Drake pulled out another photograph. “Then how do you explain the fact we found a button from the dead woman’s dress in your bedroom?”
Chase glanced at the photo and his face drained of color. He seemed to lose some of his swagger and refused to meet Drake’s stare.
“Buttons like this one in the photograph were found on a dress Miss Dixie was wearing on the day of her demise.” Drake tapped on the photo. “All the buttons from her dress have been accounted except for one. Yet we find the one missing button in your room.”
“Probably picked it up at a flea market or something.”
“You collect women’s buttons, do you?”
Chase drank from his glass of water. “You can’t prove the button from my room is a button from the same dress.”
“But we can. The button is rare. It’s made of tin. We couldn’t find one for sale on the Internet, but we did talk to several button collectors. They had never seen one like it before. It was their opinion that these buttons were handmade from tin cans. They would be considered folk art today.”
“So?”
“There’s also the dirt on the button. We are having the dirt tested to see if it matches the dirt from the gravesite.”
“No comment.”
“Were you aware the burial site of Dixie Landau had been disturbed recently?”
I squirmed in my seat, but never let out a peep.
“No.”
“Did your father disturb the gravesite? Was it his intention to move the body after Shelby Carpenter began asking questions about Dixie Landau?”
“You’re suggesting my elderly father with Parkinson’s disease was trying to unearth a dead woman and then rebury her elsewhere? You must be daft, man.”
“Did you help your father dig up Miss Dixie?”
Chase slammed both palms flat on the table. “No. No. No.”
“Do you have knowledge that your father acted alone or hired someone else to dig up Dixie Landau’s grave?”
“No, you stupid man.”
“How did you come to have one of the heart-shaped buttons in your possession?”
“I don’t remember. Must have picked it up at a flea market, like I said.” Chase leaned forward until his face was inches away from Drake’s. “Maybe one of your flunky cops planted it?”
Drake snorted derisively. “Did your father give you the button, Chase?”
“No. I’ve already told you. I don’t know a thing about that button.”
“Did your father confess the murder of Dixie Landau to you?” Drake asked.
“No.”
“I found it odd that you haven’t asked who Dixie Landau was?”
Chase’s face grew hot. “No comment.”
“Then I don’t have to explain that Dixie Orr Landau was your father’s first wife.”
Chase looked away.
“Did he tell you about her?”
“Didn’t even know she existed.”
“Did you know your father had married a second woman before he married your mother?”
“Yes. They got a divorce long before he met my mother.”
“Did your mother ever mention a Dixie Landau?”
Chase shook his head wearily. “NO!”
“Are you surprised to discover your father had a wife whom you knew nothing about?”
“My father was a private man.”
“Did he mention why he killed Miss Dixie?”
“Nice try, Detective. My father did not kill this Dixie person. You have not shown me how this woman died. How do you know she didn’t die a natural death?”
Drake slid out another photograph. “Perhaps this hole in her skull will enlighten you. Someone had to be awfully angry to strike a woman from behind with a hammer.”
Chase picked up the photograph and flung it back at Drake.
Undeterred, Drake asked, “What do you know of this woman’s murder?”
Chase shouted, “NOTHING!”
“Did you kill or have any knowledge about the death of Shelby Carpenter?”
Chase looked stunned.
So Drake had connected Shelby Carpenter’s death with the Landaus. About time.
“Did you, your father, or another person carry out the execution of Shelby Carpenter?”
“Don’t answer that, Chase,” boomed a voice from the doorway. A man burst into the room with a briefcase—his casual attire signaling he had also been called away from a Thanksgiving dinner. Uh oh, the lawyer had arrived and he looked mighty irritated. Fuming, he hissed, “Are you going to arrest my client?”
Drake leaned back in his chair. “We would like for him to take a lie detector test.”
“Our answer is no.” He turned to Chase. “Did you drink out of the glass?”
“Yes.”
The lawyer pulled out his wallet and threw a five-dollar bill on the table before picking up the glass. “We’re going to take this glass. I’m sure you weren’t trying to trick my client into giving away his DNA and fingerprints by giving him water. Let’s go, Chase. Your mother is waiting in the lobby.”
Chase stood, gave Drake a self-satisfied smile, and strode from the room with the lawyer.
Drake glanced into the two-way mirror we were sitting behind before tidying up his files and leaving the room.
&nb
sp; “What do you think, Hunter?” I asked.
“Chase is definitely hiding something.”
“I think his father gave him that button and confessed before he died.”
“What makes you think King had the button in his possession?” Hunter asked.
“Umm. Just a hunch.”
“It’s obvious Chase adored his father. He could have had knowledge of Dixie and tried to move her body. That’s why the body was disturbed.”
“Perhaps his father confessed, and Chase went to see if it was true or the ramblings of a disoriented man. Found the body, and then covered it back up.” No use pointing in my direction. Oh, crap. That would make Chase an accessory after the fact. Oh, crap. That makes me an accessory after the fact. No, wait. I called it in. Whew. That gets me off the hook.
“Possibly, but why not tell Drake if that were the case?”
“He didn’t want his father’s name tarnished.
“Which is a motive for killing Shelby Carpenter.”
“Chase kill Carpenter? No way. The boy’s a marshmallow.” I just keep getting this kid deeper and deeper in doo doo. I felt Chase had nothing to do with Shelby Carpenter’s murder. Of course, I’ve been wrong before about people.
Hunter put his legal pad away. “Chase knows more than he is saying. I think he’s very much involved in this somehow.” Taking out his laptop, he typed from his notes and sent an email. “Done. We can leave now. Drake’s got my notes. I’ll just stick my head in his door before we leave. You can wait in the car. Warm it up, please.” Hunter gave me a beseeching look.
I knew the real reason he wanted to get rid of me was so he could face Drake’s wrath alone. I took the keys and made my way out into the cold. Turning the engine on, I listened to Christmas music until Hunter made his way out and into the Jeep.
“Well, how did it go?” I asked.
“Drake said something about your personal anatomy being caught in the wringer.”
I instinctively clutched my breasts. “Ouch.”
“I’m too tired to drive all the way back to Wickliffe Manor. Can we bunk at your house tonight?”
“Sounds like a plan. I have two pumpkin pies waiting for us.”
“Hey. Things are looking up.”
“It’s a good thing I forgot them. Now we have something to snack on.”
“It’s not Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie,” Hunter said.
A lonely snowplow pushed past us.
I mused, “We are not the only ones working on Thanksgiving.”
“Poor schmuck.”
“Let’s head on out, Hunter. I can make a nice fire, and we can snuggle in front of the fireplace, eating ourselves sick with pumpkin pie.”
“Got whipped cream?”
“The heaviest.”
“You are a treasure.” Hunter followed the snowplow out of town and onto Tates Creek Road.
It wasn’t long but before we were home—safe and sound curled up in each other’s arms.
38
Ferrina asked Ellen Boudreaux to handle the gathering after the funeral, but Ellen, still smarting from Chase throwing her out of the Landau’s house, refused. What a peach!
So Ferrina asked Franklin to help so the staff could attend King’s funeral, and I volunteered to help Franklin. See how that works. I had more investigating to do and what better time to do it than while everyone was attending King’s funeral.
Yes, it is unethical, but if sleuths always acted ethically, we would never solve any crimes. See. It’s a conundrum. We act unethically to catch unethical people.
Franklin and I entered the kitchen to find a list of errands we were to do and food to prepare. The cook had already made items for the wake. All we had to do was set out the dishes and beverages on the buffet table.
One of the errands listed was to check all of the bathrooms and make sure there was adequate toilet paper.
Franklin looked at me, saying, “You get that gig. I’m going to heat up the meatballs.”
No problem. It would allow me to roam the house. I passed through the dining room to the main foyer. I checked the hallway bathroom, which was spotless with its gleaming marble floors, sparkling sink, and luxurious hand towels. I had to think for a moment how many bathrooms were on the first floor. Ah, there was King’s bathroom in his study. Great. Maybe his desk would be unlocked, and I could go through its contents.
I pitty-pattered down the hallway gleefully only to gasp when I stepped into King’s study. The French doors were flung open with glass from a busted frame on the floor. Books were scattered about the room, and King’s treasured mementos were in tatters. Paintings had been ripped from their places on the walls with the backings cut from the frames. King’s portrait torn from the wall exposed a safe.
Shocked at the damage to the room, I stepped deeper inside not thinking. Oh boy! I shouldn’t have taken that extra step.
“Don’t move or I’ll blow your brains out,” came a raspy voice from behind.
Yes, it was a corny and trite thing to say, but it certainly caught my attention, especially when a gun was pressed to my temple. “Don’t turn around.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
“Who are you?”
“I just came to help prepare for the wake.”
“Who else is here?”
“No one. I’m by myself.”
“You’re lying. I heard you talking to someone.”
“Then why are you still here?”
The stranger pressed the muzzle of the gun into my flesh. “I will have no compunction in killing you, lady.”
“I believe you.” This is when I kind of wet my panties.
“Who else is here?”
“Two other people came to help. They’re probably outside bringing food in from the catering truck. If you leave by the French doors, they won’t even see you.”
“Do you have the combination to the safe?”
“Why would I have the combination? I’m just a caterer who will be missed soon if you don’t let me go.”
“Let’s go see your friends.”
“Did you look through the desk? The combination is probably written down somewhere.”
“I did.”
“Did you look under the drawers? Sometimes elderly people write on the underside of wooden drawers.”
The man grabbed my neck and dragged me over to the desk. “Not a bad idea. You look for me.”
I ignored the impulse to turn around and see the man’s face, knowing that if I did he would kill me for sure. I pulled out each drawer and turned it upside down. On the third drawer, I found faint marks on the underside. Do I know people or what!
The man instructed, “Sit in the chair and face the other wall. Read me the numbers.”
Shielding my eyes and bowing my head, I sat in King’s chair and read the marks recorded in pencil. I heard the man head over to the safe and try the numbers.
“It’s not working.”
“No need to get excited.” I bent over closer to read the numbers. “The markings are faint. Try this.”
Grunting and cussing, the man worked the combination while I pondered if I could make it to the door and down the hallway before the intruder caught up with me. I decided it was too much of a chance. With my bum leg, I wouldn’t be fast enough. There was a sterling letter opener on the desk. I surreptitiously palmed it while I felt around with my feet. I came upon the phone, which he had thrown onto the floor. It had an intercom connection with the kitchen. Slowly taking off my shoes, I pressed on the receiver with one big toe and pressed the kitchen button with the other big toe. Please, please, Franklin. Pick up. “Did you find what you were looking for?” I asked in a loud voice.
“What’s it to you?” the man replied.
I heard items being dropped on the floor. “Look, the Landau family and guests will be arriving very soon. In fact, I think I hear cars in the driveway now. You can go out this door. I haven’t seen your face. You have no reason to hurt me. You can make
a clean getaway.”
The man jerked me out of the chair, dragging me toward the dining room.
“Stop! What are you doing? You got what you want. Just go.”
The man’s grip was like iron, and I couldn’t pull away. Talk about feeling like a rag doll being jerked around. The only thing I could do was to drop to the floor like a dead weight, screaming, “RUN, FRANKLIN!”
I looked up and saw the man was startled but he collected himself in a split second. It was time enough to point the gun down at me. Unlike Shelby Carpenter, I saw the gun coming toward me, so I did the only thing I could. I reached up and grabbed the man’s privates. Boy, did I squeeze and twist like there was no tomorrow because if he didn’t drop that gun, there would be no tomorrow for me.
The man gasped and sputtered in shock, trying to smack my hands away. Furious, he pointed the gun at me again.
Oh, God! Oh, God! Don’t let me die like this. Shrieking like a banshee, I took my fist and punched him in the you-know-what as the coup de grace. The gunman dropped the gun and sank to the floor in agony.
Franklin ran from the kitchen with an iron skillet in his hand ready to do battle. Seeing the man writhing in pain on the dining room floor, Franklin kicked the gun away out of the man’s reach and ran back in the kitchen, returning with a roll of Duck tape. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” I said, grinning, “but I think he might need medical attention. I might have squished some things rather important to him.”
“Where he’s going, he won’t need them. Who is he?”
The attacker groaned.
“He’s the man King Landau hired to murder Shelby Carpenter. Isn’t that right?” I asked as I wrapped tape around the man’s feet while Franklin taped the man’s hands still clutching his “personal life.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“I would bet he hadn’t been paid by King. Let’s check the man’s pockets, shall we?”
Franklin and I rummaged through the killer’s pockets and wallet as he unleashed a vile stream of curses prompting Franklin to tape the man’s mouth shut. “Well, mister, we’re just going to have to plug up that potty mouth of yours. No one calls me that and gets away with it,” Franklin said.