“Okay, Jane…I know this isn’t going to sound very convincing, but I know that Eric North is involved in Victoria’s death. I can’t tell you how I know,” I raise a hand as Jane starts to question me, “but I do. That’s why I was at his studio. Trying to shake something loose. It didn’t work, but I can tell you he didn’t react like an innocent bystander. He didn’t admit anything, but his responses were off.”
“What do you mean?”
I run a hand through my hair. “I’ve been a homicide detective for a long time. Questioned a lot of people. You just get a feeling for when someone is concealing something, or holding something back.”
She nods slowly, eyes glued to the road ahead.
“Plus, he threatened me. He grabbed my coat, said he’d kill me if I kept harassing him.”
“Well, from his point of view, you were.”
“This was more than just testosterone posturing. He was angry. Enraged. If you hadn’t arrived just then, I don’t know what he would have done. He let me go when we heard your siren, and I still drew my weapon. He was that intimidating.”
“What? You pulled a gun on someone? Audrey —” She takes a turn too wide, and has to swerve away from an oncoming truck. Its horn blares a warning.
I’m squeezing the armrest as my seatbelt presses against my chest. “Jane, listen. I was afraid for my life. You would have been too, if you’d seen the rage in his eyes. It’s him. I know it.” I take out my phone and play back the recording.
When it’s finished, she says, “Jesus Christ.”
“I know, right?”
“You think he’s the arsonist?”
“I know he had access to a welding torch.” I tell her about my interview with Jason. “Plus, he uses paint thinners and other possible accelerants. Those piles we saw? Maybe rags from his studio. We both saw some in the fellowship hall.”
She doesn’t say anything.
I press my case. “He’s already shown disregard for human life, Detective. He knew we were there.”
“What I heard on your recording was him expressing dismay at the thought of someone being killed.”
“It was the way he looked at me when he said it. And his tone.” But my heart sinks.
Jane drives me back home. Judge Rutherford is in his front yard and waves as we flip a u-turn in front of the house. Great, my law-abiding neighbors see me arriving in police custody.
But. Other things to think about.
“Detective, there’s one other thing.” She rolls her eyes, but I continue. “You’ve arrested Claire Chandler for her husband’s death.”
“Yeah, so?”
I take a deep breath, committing myself. “So, I think she’s innocent. I think Eric North is responsible for both murders.”
Jane rests her head briefly on the steering wheel. “Audrey, just stop. We have evidence. Her fingerprints were all over the crime scene. She has ready access to the church and has no alibi for the time of death. Opportunity. Chandler was having an affair. Had a history of cheating. Motive. There’s a life insurance policy for him that lists her as the beneficiary. More motive. You know yourself the surviving spouse is usually the perp in cases like these.”
“You guys didn’t get a crime scene team in there for days. She called me from his office the day after they’d taken the body away. She was actually on the computer. I told her to get out of there, but that explains the fingerprints. Plus, they were married. It’s not unlikely her prints would be on anything of his.”
“She called you? What for?”
“Because she’d found evidence of financial fraud on Daniel’s computer. She thought he was selling the church assets — the artwork — and doing something else with the money. Jane, just look at the accounting records. It’s additional motive.”
“Yeah, for her. It sounds like Daniel was going to wreck their lives.”
Shit. “You’ve got it wrong, Detective. She didn’t know until after he’d been killed. She was nosing around, trying to figure it out. Her call to me proves it.”
“So she says. It could all be staged to make her look better.”
“And the Earth could be flat.” I unbuckle my seat belt. “I’m trying to help you. The evidence is only circumstantial at best. If your case isn’t completely watertight, you’re going to be accused of implicit bias.”
Candide scoffs. “Because she’s Black, I suppose?”
“Yes. Because she’s Black, and a woman, and because she’s innocent. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t do this to her.”
“Audrey, just get out, all right? Out of my car, out of this investigation, out of the whole damn business.”
“I’m going, but Jane — don’t trash your career a second time.”
She peels away as soon as I’ve shut the door and I watch her drive away. Despite my appeal, it’s all too likely that Claire will be convicted. There’s no other suspect. I’d be suspicious of her too, if I didn’t know about Eric North.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE NEXT DAY I decide to visit Claire Chandler. My coat still reeks of smoke, so I pull on a sweater and fleece vest before setting out.
I’m surprised to learn the jail — the ‘corrections center’ — is right downtown behind the first Baptist Church. It’s a brutalist concrete affair, and it’s difficult to find the entry. The maple tree in a concrete planter is just beginning to bud, and some joker has put a ‘no vacancy’ sign in one of the windows.
So, jail.
I wish I could say I didn’t know what to expect, but that’s not true. There’s no glossing over what is an essentially grim experience. Still, I discover that the visiting process is casual as far as these things go. But of course, Claire hasn’t been convicted yet. She’s being held pending her bail hearing; apparently, she’s a flight risk. Because, you know, murder. Capital crime. Oregon has a death penalty, although it’s been in abeyance for a while; it’s still on the books.
Be calm. That’s the best way I can help her.
Soon I’m in a big conference room sitting at a white plastic table, and a female guard who looks like she missed her calling as a linebacker for the Broncos escorts Claire inside. She’s wearing a polo-style shirt and baggy pants in broad black and white stripes. Her expression is stern and angry. The lines around her eyes have taken on a new depth, and look as though they are etched down to her skull.
As she sits at the table, she says, “Audrey. Get me the hell out of here.”
I feel at fault somehow, as though I am to blame for her current condition. If I had caught Victoria’s killer. If I had caught Daniel’s killer. If.
But. This is not about me.
They don’t allow us to touch, so I put my hands together. “I’m trying. I’m positive I know who killed Victoria. I just need evidence.”
“I don’t really care about that now. What about Daniel?” Her eyes sheen with unshed tears. “Find out who killed him. That’s the only thing that will help me.”
“I think it’s the same person.”
“Who?”
Do I tell her? Without evidence, it’s outright slander. She doesn’t need that. I explain why I’m withholding my suspicions for now.
She grits her teeth. “I don’t give a shit for all your legal niceties. Get me out. Find out who did this. Have they processed the scene? Who else was there?”
“Claire, I’ve got some bad news. The scene has been demolished. Someone tried to burn down the church Tuesday night.”
Her mouth drops open. “What?”
“I was there at the time. With Detective Candide.”
“Oh my God. Who would do such a thing?” She shakes her head, and her expression becomes bleak. “So many haters. Did you see who it was?”
“No. We were inside Daniel’s office at the time. But logic says it’s the killer.”
I wait while she moans a little to herself, then mutters, then slaps the table. A guard at the wall jolts to attention, then settles back down when I raise a palm.
She closes her eyes.
“Claire, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, how it must feel.” I lean forward. “Did they say why they think you did it?”
Her laugh is hollow, without mirth. “Revenge for his cheating and life insurance. I didn’t even know there was a policy! They don’t have the weapon but they say they don’t need it, that I must have thrown it into the river. They keep trying to get me to confess.”
Trying to be encouraging. “It sounds pretty circumstantial.”
“You’re the one who told me the police don’t arrest innocent people. But I should have known better.” She laughs again, with a sound so bitter it makes me recoil.
I wish I could tell her that’s not true. But I can’t.
“So who do you think killed Daniel?” I ask again.
“Aside from a jealous husband? I don’t know.”
“A specific jealous husband? Do you know for sure who he was having an affair with?”
“I can’t talk about this, I really can’t.”
“Claire, please. I’m trying to help you.”
She sighs, rubs her eyes. “Victoria. Maybe. But really, there could be others.” Her smile is twisted. “There were always others.”
I recall my own earlier suspicions. “The pastor? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs, looks away. “I actually don’t know for sure. It’s not the sort of thing you want to broadcast. It’s too hurtful. Plus, it just gives me more motive.”
My head is spinning. What if Daniel had killed Victoria? Or if someone thought he had? I remembered a sullen voice, Jason Morganstern, saying: “I’d kill anyone who’d hurt her.” What if he thought Daniel had? Or — if he’d known Daniel and Victoria had a sexual relationship, would his devotion to her turn into jealousy? Enough to kill his perceived rival?
Enough to kill the woman he adores?
But no, Eric killed Victoria. I’m sure of that.
Evidence. I need evidence.
“Knock knock, Audrey. What’s going on in there?” Claire taps the side of her own head.
“Just trying to figure things out.”
“Taking you a long time to do it.” Claire’s hands are restless, clenching, unclenching, and finally ending up in her lap. “I need help. Please. I can’t pay you from in here, but —”
“It’s not the money. That’s the least of it. This case is just — slippery. I can’t seem to get a foothold. But,” I say, standing up, “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe you killed anyone.”
“Why don’t you tell Detective Olafson that? Or the D.A.?”
“I will. I’ve already told Detective Candide.”
“Why were you two at the church?”
I’m thrown for a second by her change of subject. “We were looking for evidence. We tried to get the computer, but the fire had already started and we didn’t get it out. At least, not whole. I think the detective got the hard drive. But only after she dropped the whole thing on the floor.”
“There’s backups at the house.”
“Whose house? Yours?”
“Daniel always brought the backups home with him. Said it was good practice to keep them in a different place than the main computer.”
I feel a surge of hope. “Would you grant access to the cops?”
“Would it help my case?”
“It might. Create goodwill. Show you have nothing to hide. You should tell your attorney. You do have one, right?”
“Tips at the Portway don’t begin to cover the cost of a lawyer. They’ve assigned me a public defender. In theory. I haven’t actually seen him.”
“Use the computer backup as a bargaining chip. Tell your lawyer you’ll grant access in exchange for bail.”
“I see you know all about twisting the system.”
“Court cases are all about negotiation.”
“So much for justice, then.” Her voice is sad and bitter.
I suck in a breath. “Look, Claire, I know I haven’t been spectacularly productive so far. But I will do my best to nail the killer, and I won’t give up until I do. I’m close, I know it.”
She shrugs and raises a skeptical eyebrow, but I mean every word.
I drive back home, get out, and lean against the car. It’s all out of control. I’m shaking with repressed emotion.
I’ve never seen a friend get jailed before. Never been so sure of a miscarriage of justice.
Hey, that’s just how it is. Hook ‘em. Book ‘em. Let the lawyers sort it out.
“No, that’s not how it is!” I kick the side of the garage in frustration. I want to howl at the heavens. “Help me save my friend, for God’s sake.”
“Something wrong?” The voice is Lincoln Rutherford’s gravelly baritone. “Shall I get Phoebe?” He’s dressed in overalls and gardening gloves with deep grass and earth stains, a trowel in one hand.
“Everything’s just peachy,” I growl, extremely irritated that he thinks I need a therapist. Even if I do. “Where’s the public defender’s office?”
He blinks, but reels it off from memory. Afterwards, he says, “Don’t tell me anything more. I really, really don’t want to know why you were with the police yesterday, or why you want the P.D. It’s a small town, and too easy for me to hear something that I shouldn’t.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“Am. But active judges still have vacation, sick leave, or have to recuse themselves. I’m back on the bench every six weeks or so.”
My phone rings. It’s Seth Takahashi. With an apologetic wave to Link, I go a few yards down the sidewalk. The preacher says he’s at the homeless shelter, and that one of the residents has something important to tell me. He wants me to come and talk to this man, right now.
So, of course I go. Because at this point, I’m looking for a miracle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I FIND TAKAHASHI and his companion in a small room at the shelter, in a space set aside for counseling or meditation. There’s a table and four chairs. I take one, try to keep my eagerness and anxiety and hope in check, but I can feel sweat between my shoulder blades.
The Reverend as usual is dressed in black jeans and a white shirt, buttoned up to the neck. His companion is the opposite: a white man with stringy brown hair to his shoulders and a patchy beard. He’s dressed in stained blue jeans and a red sweatshirt. His shoes are torn and full of holes. He clutches a tattered spiral notebook and looks down at the table. With a start, I realize that I recognize him.
Takahashi says, “Audrey, I’d like you to meet Mr. Travis McGuthrie. Travis, this is the woman I told you about, Ms. Audrey Lake.”
“Hi,” I say. “I saw you at the shelter last week.” I extend my hand to McGuthrie, and he barely touches it with his fingers before dropping his hand back to his notebook. He doesn’t look at me.
“Travis, I’d like you to share your poem with Audrey. Is that okay? You can read it aloud, or give it to her to read herself.”
Oh lordy, a poetry reading. There was a detective from Denver…
Shut up, Zoe. Seth wouldn’t have asked us — me — here without a good reason.
Who stuck her hand in a blender…
I remembered Phoebe’s advice not to talk back to the voice, not to give it any more attention and energy. The recollection of her firm, no-nonsense tone is a lifeline.
It’s getting crowded in here, gonna have to build an addition.
I should never have given her free rein.
Ignore Zoe, concentrate instead on the tableau before me. Seth sitting quietly, hands in his lap, looking at Travis encouragingly. Travis opens up his notebook and pages through it. It bears many brief notes, some sketches, and some dense handwritten passages wh
ich I think might be a sort of journal. He stops at a page with a rough series of single written lines marred by smudged fingermarks and begins to read.
“The night is cold. The ground is hard. But river seen through screen of grass is beautiful.
I hear footsteps. I see a woman. She comes along the path.
Her hair is long. Her shoulders hunched. She looks back more than once.
She leaves the path. Goes to the beach, her footprints on the sand.”
I catch my breath. Seth flashes me a warning glance. Travis doesn’t look up, continuing his recital.
“I hear the tread of someone else. Faster. Harder. Louder.
A man comes through. He follows her. His feet sink in the sand.
I see him reach. She dances back. I hear him yell. I see him strike.
I hear her cry. I see her fall. Her hand is on her cheek.
I see him kneel and shake her hard. Her words to him are sharp.
He strikes again. She speaks again. He reaches for her.
Knocks her down. Then puts her into the water.
For a moment they are one, then two.
The man walks away alone.”
Travis puts his notebook down. Takahashi looks at me and raises his eyebrows.
Holy shit. He was there.
Yeah. He was.
I’ve got to proceed carefully here. This is a vulnerable witness. I don’t want to lead him, or scare him, or make him retract his story.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s a pretty striking poem. Was that something you actually saw?” I deliberately don’t use the word ‘witnessed.’ I don’t want to be all policey and intimidating. Who knows what his interaction with law enforcement has been before now? Not good, I’ll reckon.
Travis nods.
“Where did this happen?”
He shuffles his feet. Looks around the room. At Seth. But not at me.
A Memory of Murder: An Audrey Lake Investigation (Audrey Lake Investigations Book 1) Page 24