Exercise Is Murder

by Bruce Hammack

  “Take Lucifer with you. We have a busy day ahead of us and it’s off to a bad start.”

  After breakfast, Heather broke the silence. “How much did you learn yesterday?” She rinsed the remains of an omelet from Steve’s plate and placed it in the dishwasher.

  “Some.” He grimaced when he sipped the dregs of his coffee. “Kate had plenty of good things to say about her daughter, but virtually nothing about her son. She did drop the name Brittany Brown when I asked her who might have an axe to grind against Ned. She’s an attorney–the only other attorney in Ned’s office.”

  “Partner, or junior partner?”

  “Neither. Kate thought that might be the problem. Brittany followed Ned when he left the D.A.’s office and she’s right where she started. We’ll pay her a visit in a day or two.”

  Heather filed away the name Brittany Brown. She reached for the coffee and poured Steve a second cup. He’d left his sunglasses on the nightstand and looked very different without them. More vulnerable. His thinning brown hair was a rat’s nest. How she’d hate not being able to see, especially not knowing how her makeup looked.

  Steve interrupted her musings. “Tell me your impressions of Kate.”

  “Do you want the unvarnished version?”

  “Straight, no chaser,” said Steve.

  “If I only had one word to use, I’d say facade.”

  “Use more than one word.”

  Heather put down her coffee cup. “She’s chasing her youth, but it’s pulling away fast. She’s had work done of the plastic variety. Everything that drooped or sagged has been pinned up, snipped or tucked. She needs to stop. There’s a tipping point with plastic surgery when you begin to look freaky. She’s got a way to go yet, but she’s heading in that direction.”

  “What else?”

  “She’s obsessed with money and not happy that someone put her on a budget. I saw that in her home.”

  “Hmmm,” said Steve. “Tell me about her home.”

  “Big and gaudy. Think of her design style as a mix between Louis XIV and a lottery winner. The intent is to show opulence, but everything is beginning to look dated. I’d say nothing new has been purchased in the last four to five years.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. She has a boy-toy.”

  Steve had his coffee to his lips but immediately set it down. “Are you sure?”

  “A pair of damp swim trunks, size thirty-two, on the rail of her oversize bathtub says yes. The men’s pants, what few there were in the half-acre closet, were size thirty-six.” Heather snapped her fingers. “I wonder if those swim trunks belong to the lawn maintenance guy. He’s the right size and he seemed right at home. A nice-looking guy, in a swarthy kind of way. I’ll check him out.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if she did some daytime entertaining. Ned told me he moved over the garage four years ago.”

  Steve took a sip of coffee and resettled his mug. “It’s also possible she was spending money faster than Ned could haul it in. I bet she’s set to get a bundle from life insurance and the sale of Ned’s law practice.”

  “Kate told you that?”

  “She all but said it. People obsessed with money like to talk about it.”

  Heather wagged her head. “Sounds like trouble in paradise. It could be motive enough to kill him.”

  “Yeah,” said Steve as he raised his cup for another sip. He had pulled back into himself, another of his quirks.

  Since Steve ended the conversation about Katherine, Heather moved on. “Was that Leo calling last night?” The question came to bring the turtle out of his shell.

  Steve nodded. “He managed to find out there were two superficial puncture wounds to Ned’s back, about four inches apart.”

  Nothing came to her mind as to a possible cause, so she asked, “Any ideas?”

  “I spent most of the night thinking about what could have caused the wounds. I think it was three a.m. when it came to me. Taser.”

  Heather envisioned the scene from the perspective of the killer. Someone stood at the side of the pool. Two metal wires snaked downward from a black and yellow, hand-held pistol-looking device. The wires led to barbed tips, like tiny straightened fishing hooks, which entered Ned’s back and stayed there until he drowned and the killer yanked them out.

  She spoke out loud, but mainly to herself. “He was killed the same way an electric eel would kill something that came close. Stun it and let it drown. Ned didn’t stand up because he couldn’t.”

  “That’s how I see it…so to speak.”

  She brought herself back to the present. “What else did Leo say?”

  “No signs of forced entry. Security cameras outside show the people that came and went all day. The Woodlands P.D. is concentrating on the two hours before and after the estimated time of death.”

  Heather thought for a moment. “How did the coroner determine that?”

  “It wasn’t a coroner,” said Steve. “There were no obvious signs of trauma so the responding officers didn’t suspect foul play. In Texas a Justice of the Peace is usually called if the death doesn’t occur in a hospital. They give an official pronouncement of death and make a judgment as to the need for autopsy. If it hadn’t been for the two small places on Ned’s back, he might have gone straight to the funeral home.”

  “What’s the time frame we’re working with?”

  “Ned’s body was found at eleven forty-five a.m. Ned answered a call from his office at eight fifteen a.m. Add fifteen minutes on each side and that’s the four-hour window the cops are using.”

  “Are we getting a list of those people?”

  “My former partner came through for us. Leo sent it this morning.”

  They both sipped their coffee and allowed the revelations to sink in. Heather broke the silence. “Are you sure you don’t want to go with me to the memorial service? I could reprise my role as Pat Beerhalter.”

  “No. I’m not keen on funerals. Besides, a blind guy and Pat Beerhalter would only draw attention. I do want you to go, but as an upper-middle-class professional. Dress conservatively. Pull your hair back and wear dark glasses. Go late and sit in the back of the chapel. Leave before the last ‘Amen’ and park where you can get pictures.”

  Steve’s plan made sense and she loathed the thought of dressing up as Pat Beerhalter again. A thought occurred to her. “Do you want me to talk to anyone?”

  “Not unless something unusual happens or you have to. The internet search you did last night provided you with fairly recent photos of everyone. You should be able to recognize all of them.”

  “And you still want current photos?”

  “Humor me. Old habits don’t die easily. Expect the usual eulogies and a short sermon. Your mission is to get good photos and observe the actions of the people we talked about last night.”

  Heather thought for a moment. “That puke wagon you bought me to drive won’t fit the image of a woman in heels and hose. Can I take my Porsche?”

  “A black Camry rental will be here at nine thirty.”

  This guy doesn’t miss much. “I’ll go early and get a good place to park at the church. I might catch some of the people on the list as they arrive.”

  “Good thinking. Go get ready. You don’t want to be late. And I’m expecting a delivery this morning. I’ll need your help getting it set up this afternoon.” He rubbed his hands together as if they needed a good wash. “With luck, you’ll have the face of a killer looking at you tonight.”

  “It can’t be that easy.”

  “Get pictures of everyone on the list and we’ll go from there.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Heather’s high heels clicked on the sidewalk as she approached her new residence. She knew Steve would be listening for the sound of her key scraping the lock on the front door. Her shoes came off as soon as she entered the townhome.

  Steve spoke loud enough to be heard without turning around. “I’d think a debutante like you wouldn’t have an aver
sion to high heels.”

  “I’m older, wiser, and hope to avoid the podiatrist’s scalpel.” She scanned the living room. Parts and pieces of something big awaited her arrival. “What bomb went off?”

  “Quite a mess, isn’t it? I got started unpacking, but didn’t get far in assembly. I think the directions are over in front of the TV. If I’m not mistaken, Max is making sure they don’t fly away.”

  “Cats love to lie on papers.” She lifted her chin. “Is that pizza I smell?”

  “In the oven, keeping warm. Salad’s in the fridge. I’ve already eaten. You’re later than I thought you’d be. Did everything go all right?”

  “No problem, other than a long-winded preacher.”

  “Photos?”

  “Everyone on the list except whoever fills out the bathing suit hanging on Kate’s bathtub.”

  She retrieved a plate from the cabinet, pulled the pizza from the oven and mined the refrigerator for a salad. Over her shoulder she said, “You were right. Nothing unusual happened in the service, but I’m glad I went early. Kate and her son had a heated discussion in the church parking lot.”

  “Interesting,” said Steve. “Did the family arrive together?”

  “Kate came in a five-year-old Mercedes. Connor arrived early in an aging low-slung Audi and paced the parking lot until Mom arrived. She wasn’t out of the car good before he was in her face. She threw up her hands and stormed inside with him nipping at her heels. Carey slid in just under the wire in a not-so-new Prius. She wore an appropriate black dress with all the right accoutrements. She looked nice.”

  She knew Steve had the scene in his mind by the slight nod. His pensive state changed with the speed of turning on a light switch.

  “Heather,” he snapped. “Your spawn of Satan is making laps around my legs.”

  “So? Reach down and pet him.”

  Steve lowered his voice and mumbled just loud enough to be heard. “I think he enjoys tormenting me. He knows I’m blind and can’t hit him with the spray bottle. He’s a sneaky little devil.” His voice raised. “Do you put socks on him?”

  “You didn’t squirt him, did you?”

  Steve reached for the water-filled plastic bottle with a pistol grip that sat on the table beside his chair. He pointed it in her direction and fired off two squirts. “Some people sleep with a pistol under their pillow in case of intruders. You should be glad all I have is a spray bottle. I’ll teach him to stay off the kitchen counter and out of my bed.”

  ◆◆◆

  The pizza, salad and a little time worked together to take the edge off Heather’s anger at Steve’s attitude toward Max. After all, it was his house and she’d sprung the news of her four-legged companion only after they’d decided it would be of mutual benefit for her to move in. All the same, she held out hope the two males would find common ground. She slipped into shorts and a t-shirt and strode back to the living room.

  “Ready to get started?” asked Steve.

  “It won’t take long. There aren’t many pieces.” She busied herself assembling the legs and base to a cork board that measured six feet across and four feet tall. Twenty minutes later she admired her handiwork. “All done. What’s next?”

  “Pictures,” said Steve. “Print them out and pin them spaced evenly apart running left to right across the top of the board. There’s photo quality paper, push pins, and five-by-eight note cards on my computer desk.”

  “Old school, but effective,” said Heather. “Keep everything in front of you. Sit back and let the brain grind out the answers.”

  “It’s always worked for me,” said Steve.

  “Always?”

  “No. But a lot more times than not. Give me detailed descriptions of each person and I’ll be able to picture them as if I could see them.”

  It took a while to choose the best shots to print but, after a while, the last photo whirled out of the printer. She approached the cork board. “Any special order you want these in?”

  “Family first, left to right, in birth order. Then the others.”

  “Top left,” said Heather. “Kate, AKA Katherine, Logan.” She pinned up Kate’s picture. “Next to Kate is her argumentative son, Connor Logan. Beside Connor we have his Ivy League sister, Carey Logan. Next is Brittany Brown, the only other attorney in Ned’s office.”

  Heather picked up another photo from a quickly-shrinking stack. “Mr. Brant Speedwell. Leo told you he discovered the body. There’s a lot we don’t know yet about Mr. Speedwell, but I got a good picture of him.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?” asked Steve.

  “Vanity license plate ‘S P E E D’ on a new Yukon.”

  “That may not be him.”

  “It is. I caught him at his SUV after the service. We went for a drink.”

  Steve’s eyebrows shot upward. “And?”

  “We need to keep him on the suspect list until I can check out some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like things he didn’t want to talk about with a complete stranger. I didn’t push it. We traded phone numbers. He’s most agreeable to another meeting.”

  “Be careful,” said Steve.

  Heather noted the concern in Steve’s voice. It gave him an endearing quality, but she made a point to move on quickly. “Last, and possibly least, we have a blank space. We know Kate Logan is real chummy with someone with a size thirty-two waist, but we don’t know who that is yet. It might be the yard guy, or it could be someone else.”

  Steve rose and walked to the board. He reached out with his hand and felt the slick surface of five photos and the uneven spot where a sixth photo would soon be placed. “Security cameras and initial police reports Leo scored for me show each of these persons on the property the day Ned died, except Brittany Brown. Almost all are within the four-hour time period police are using for the time of death.”

  Heather stood back from the board. “Who do I start with?”

  Steve placed his hand on the second photo from the left. “You take Connor Logan.” His hand skipped over Carey Logan’s photo and rested on the next one. “I’ll make an appointment to see Brittany Brown. I’ll need you to take me, Ms. Beerhalter.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “Any special way you want me to handle Connor?”

  “He’s a day trader. Perhaps you can put that finance degree from Princeton to good use. Can you handle it?”

  Instead of answering the question she took hold of Steve’s hand and placed it at the very bottom of Kate Logan’s photo. “Kate Logan. Age fifty. Five-feet-five-inches tall. One hundred and forty-eight pounds after her last liposuction…”

  She droned on, giving physical descriptions of each suspect down to the last mole and protruding nose hair.

  CHAPTER 7

  The following morning, Steve had coffee brewing when Heather stumbled into the kitchen. She thought about the skimpy sleep attire she wore, but not for long. After all, what did it matter? In mid-stretch she asked, “What time is it?”

  “It was five when I got up. About five-thirty now,” said Steve.

  “Good. I need to get going. I surfed the net and made phone calls last night, finding out what I could about Connor Logan. Every morning he works out at a gym not far from his apartment.”

  Steve brushed past her on his way to take a seat at the kitchen’s bar. “What did you find out about him?”

  She poured herself a cup of Costa Rican dark roast. “You told me he was a day trader. Ninety percent of the people who try to make money at that fail, Connor Logan included. Lately he’s been trading penny stocks. The chance of success in that racket is even less.”

  “Ahh,” said Steve. “What kind of man is he?”

  “I tracked down some of his old high school friends and college fraternity brothers. By all accounts he’s a decent guy. He made good grades in high school and was a good athlete, but that didn’t transfer to college. A middle-of-the-pack student with a business degree. No mention of drugs other than a little pot a l
ong time ago. He did the usual binge drinking in college but, by all accounts, is Mr. Moderation now. I got the impression he’s likable, generous, and gullible.”

  “Is he hurting for money?”

  “I’ll find that out this morning.” She carried her mug with her on the way to get dressed.

  “Say, Heather.”

  She stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t mind you wearing that when it’s only us two here, but make sure you put on a robe if we have company.”

  Her eyes flew wide open. “How do you know what I’m wearing?”

  He faced straight ahead. She thought she detected a slight grin.

  “I went through your dresser. You don’t own any sleepwear that isn’t sheer, sexy, and expensive.”

  Her temper flared. “You dirty old man. Who gave you the right to put your grubby paws all over my—”

  “You went through mine,” he countered. His grin spread wide. “How did you like my boxers? Pretty hot, aren’t they?”

  She stood speechless for several seconds and said, “You win this round, but it’s only round one.”

  ◆◆◆

  The gym’s parking lot held a good smattering of cars, but Connor Logan’s wasn’t among them. All the better. The former police cruiser didn’t match the image she wanted to portray. Today she’d be someone very much like her father wanted her to be. Besides, she could get inside and secure a one-day pass before he arrived.

  Inside she received the grand tour, endured the sales pitch and issued a rather tart, “I’ll see how today goes before I make a decision.” Heather checked her reflection in the mirror and nodded approval. All of her curves were still in their youthful places. The spandex leggings showed off the contours of her legs, her torso discreetly covered by a sweatshirt emblazoned with Princeton University.

  The front of the building, a bank of glass, gave a full view of the parking lot. She didn’t have long to wait as, right on schedule, Connor arrived, made small talk with the receptionist, grabbed a towel, and headed for a forest of treadmills. He chose one three rows back from a television showing a business channel. Plugging in earphones, he punched in a program to the machine, then, off he went on a simulated run. Heather waited until he’d traversed a quarter mile, glanced at the program he’d selected on his treadmill and climbed onto the machine directly in front of him. Five minutes into her workout she removed the sweatshirt and tied the sleeves around her waist. She made sure the lettering of her university bounced in full view. She hoped the curves under her sleeveless skin-tight top would be bait enough for him to want to strike up a conversation when she finished her run.