Exercise Is Murder

by Bruce Hammack

  The air in the apartment hung thick and stale. Or, maybe it was it her imagination. Either way, Heather needed to get out and think–and if she did, how much more did Steve need to ponder his plight? “I’m going to grab some lunch and find a quiet place under a tree. Can I fix you something before I go?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

  “Yeah, pick me up a one-way plane ticket to the Bahamas.”

  Heather left Pat Beerhalter in a pile on her bedroom floor and down the drain of her bathroom sink. A tank top, black leggings, tennis shoes and a ponytail completed her reincarnation into Heather McBlythe. She pulled a lightweight hoodie over her head as she walked to the door. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Steve grunted as she closed the door.

  Her thoughts spun as she drove the blue and white cruiser to a neighborhood restaurant, grabbed a southwestern salad to-go and headed to a nearby park. The pine tree she settled under provided exactly what she desired: shade, quiet, and a gentle sway of the branches far above her head. Peace in the midst of an unexpected squall.

  The salad looked awesome but proved to be a hot disappointment. The house dressing should have come with a warning label. Vinegar, cilantro and chunks of unnamed peppers from the Marquis de Sade’s garden cauterized Heather’s mouth. She set the plastic box aside and sipped a bottle of water.

  As the burn subsided, a plan began to take shape. Money would be required. Lots of money, and it needed to come almost immediately. Steve didn’t have that kind of money, and it was certainly more than the seventy-six dollars in her purse. But there was someone who had all she would need. She reached for her phone and selected a name she hadn’t called in almost a year. A man’s voice answered.

  “Father…Heather. I have a business proposition for you.”

  ◆◆◆

  Following the call, the breeze lost ambition. Heather’s wayside picnic oasis became hot and sticky, what some people referred to as “close.” The arrival of a squadron of mosquitoes hastened her departure all the more, but didn’t dampen her spirits in the least. The conversation with her father had gone better than she expected. Much better.

  Air-conditioned relief smacked her as soon as she opened the door to Steve’s townhome. It appeared he had not moved a muscle, but a plate and scrunched napkin on the counter told a different story.

  “How was the park?”

  She considered the buoyancy in Steve’s question unusual given how despondent he’d been only a few hours earlier. She matched the tone of her response to his. “Not bad until I was attacked by a flock of the blood-sucking hummingbirds you people call mosquitoes.”

  “Everything’s bigger in Texas,” he quipped.

  She recognized the return of his droll sense of humor, a way of conversing that suited her down to the ground. “It sounds like you quit feeling sorry for yourself while I was away.”

  “For the most part. I dropped the ‘e’ from emotion and made a phone call or two.”

  Heather lifted Max from the couch cushion closest to Steve’s chair and placed him on her lap. His purr combined entitlement with contentment. In many ways she and Max shared the moment. Steve had, in a very short time, righted his emotional ship, a good quality in a roommate. In addition, she’d taken a huge step in reconciling with her father. She had to admit, if only to herself, Max’s purrs echoed her sentiments.

  “Tell me more about what you’ve been doing,” she said.

  “I called Leo. The coroner officially ruled Ned’s death a homicide.”

  “That means our suspects are going to be questioned by The Woodlands Police. That’s going to put whoever’s guilty on the defensive.”

  Steve affirmed what she said with a nod. “I was hoping we’d get to them first.”

  The pros and cons of the police interviewing the family and other suspects ran through Heather’s mind. The cons far outpaced the pros. She continued stroking Max and asked, “Who else did you call?”

  “Brittany Brown. We had a nice chat. She’s wrapped around the axle.”

  “Sorry,” said Heather. “I’m not up on all your homespun expressions yet. What exactly does that mean?”

  “Wrapped around the axle? It means she’s upset nine ways to Sunday, tied up in knots, beside herself with worry, and like a calf seeing a new gate. She’s not quite to the point of squealing like a stuck pig, but she’s sure got her knickers in a knot.”

  Heather shook her head and mumbled, “I’ll never understand the affinity you people have for colloquialisms. Your passion for clichés rivals your love affair with chicken-fried anything. I take it you mean she’s upset.”

  “To put it mildly. And by the way, you’re set up to start going over Ned’s books tomorrow morning.”

  “That sounds like a job for a CPA. Better yet, a CPA and a forensic accountant.”

  “You’re right, but all I have is you. I hope you didn’t sleep through your accounting classes at Princeton.”

  “What if I hire my own accountants?” asked Heather.

  “On what I pay you?” He chuckled. “Knock yourself out.”

  Heather pressed on before he caught on. “While we’re talking about Ned’s office, it appears Ned’s secretary and Connor Logan are very chummy.”

  “Oh?”

  “She didn’t appreciate me talking to him at the gym this morning.”

  “Interesting,” said Steve. “Describe her for me.”

  “I’m going to find a photo of her, put it on the board, and then describe her for you. There should be one on the fold-out of a back issue of Playboy.”

  Steve chuckled. “If you start putting up photos of every person you don’t like, we’ll have to get a bigger board.”

  Heather’s cell phone jangled a ring tone. “Ah, Brant Speedwell. I was hoping he’d call.” She swiped the screen. “Hello, Brant…Tonight? Sure. Where and when?... No, I don’t know it. How ’bout I meet you at your office and we can go from there…Yeah, I know where it is…Sounds great…Yes, seven works for me.”

  Steve lowered his legs. “Someone has a hot date.”

  Heather put Max on the cushion beside her and walked to the kitchen. “It’s more like prospecting for information than looking for a good time. However, he’s not hard on the eyes.” She opened the door to the refrigerator and looked at cold air and condiments.

  Steve’s voice found its way past the refrigerator’s door. “Didn’t you eat already?”

  “The dressing on my salad was made of Napalm.”

  “That’s too bad. I made tuna salad and ate every bite. I’m not sure what brand you picked up, but make sure to keep buying it. I’ve never had tuna so moist and I loved the extra-fishy taste.”

  Heather glanced down at the dish by Max’s water bowl. A few mud-colored flakes remained. She looked in the trash and saw two empty cans on top. Purr-fect Delight Seafood Medley with the easy pull-top lid and albacore tuna packed in spring water, also with a pull-off top.

  Uh-Oh. “Did you happen to feed Max?”

  “He wouldn’t shut up until I did.”

  “That’s nice. Thanks. Did Max enjoy his meal?”

  “Yeah, he really went after it. You should have heard him smacking.”

  I’ll never tell him. He’d squeal like a stuck pig.

  Chapter 9

  The evening had not gone as Heather planned. The Irish Pub, only a few blocks from the Logan Professional Building, proved to be a cacophony of noise, making discourse all but impossible. Brant shouted, “I’m sorry about the noise. If you’ll give me another chance, I promise I’ll pick a nice quiet place.”

  Once back in Brant’s SUV she offered a full smile and said, “That made me long to visit Ireland again. In the pubs across the pond you’re either standing cheek-to-jowl, being constantly jostled, or sitting on a narrow chair at an undersized table. The conversations are loud, salty and stimulating. It brought back nice memories.” She reached over and rested a hand on hi
s forearm. “You look tired…or is that worry I see in your wrinkled brow?”

  “Both.” He caught what he said and pursed his lips. As he turned into the parking lot of the Logan professional building he said, “I’m sorry. This wasn’t a good idea.” He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. It was a great idea, just bad timing.”

  Heather spotted a car in the near-empty parking lot. She reached in her purse, pulled out a dollar bill and handed it to Brant. “Give this back to me, right now. You’re hiring me as your attorney.”

  His baffled look came complete with pinched eyebrows. “Huh?”

  She pointed. “In that car are two police detectives. They’re here to question you about the death of Ned Logan.”

  “They already did. I told them all I know.”

  “I don’t have time to explain.” Heather’s voice was all business. “If you don’t want to take a ride in the back of their car tonight, you’ll have to trust me. Give me the dollar back. I can advise you.” She looked into gray eyes. “Ned’s death has been ruled a homicide. You were the one who found him. That makes you a suspect. These guys aren’t going to play nice. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t know you were a lawyer.”

  “I am, but I’m not licensed to practice in this state yet. I’ll be walking a fine line with what I say.”

  Two men met them on the sidewalk outside the front door. The taller of the two said, “Brant Speedwell?”

  A nod of Brant’s head took the place of words.

  The man pulled back his coat revealing a pistol and badge on his belt. “Detectives Lowe and Hall from The Woodlands police. I need you to come with us.”

  “Why?” asked Heather.

  The badge flasher scowled, obviously not used to his authority being questioned. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Brant spoke before Heather could. “This is Heather McBlythe, my legal advisor.”

  The two detectives exchanged glances. Detective Lowe continued. “That doesn’t change a thing. You’re coming with us, Mr. Speedwell.”

  “Is he under arrest?” asked Heather.

  No answer.

  “Is he being detained? If so, what did you use to establish probable cause?”

  No answer.

  “Gentlemen, you may be used to bullying your way through interrogations. I’m not. If you wish to question my client, we’re amenable, but it will be in his office.” She pointed toward the door. “Shall we?”

  Detective Lowe growled, but jerked the door open and the quartet made their way to the second floor. The two detectives sat across a conference table from Brant and Heather. Detective Lowe ground his molars while Hall, a thoughtful-looking man with milk-chocolate skin and close-cropped hair, took out a black notebook.

  Heather wanted to keep them off balance. She needed them to ask many of the same questions she had planned to ask without them catching on to her real purpose. She’d be walking a tightrope. It had to look and sound good enough, but not too good.

  Lowe proved to be the talker of the two. “Mr. Speedwell, before I begin, I need to read you…”

  Heather interrupted. “Hold on a minute, Detective Lowe.” She pulled out her cell phone, turned on the function that recorded audio and said, “April twenty-third, eight forty-five p.m. Parties present are Detectives Lowe and Hall of The Woodlands Police, Mr. Brant Speedwell, and Attorney Heather McBlythe. At this time I’m asking Detectives Lowe and Hall to produce their police identification and give their badge numbers.”

  “We’ve already shown you ID,” snapped Lowe.

  “That’s not exactly true, is it?” countered Heather. “A glance at a badge on a belt is not an examination and Detective Hall did not go to that trouble.”

  Hall took his credentials out and passed it across the table. “Badge number 2971,” he said in a soft voice.

  Lowe tossed his and barked, “2613.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Before we begin I want it understood this is informal questioning. Mr. Speedwell has not been advised of his rights, and if he is, I will advise him to terminate this voluntary interview. He is prepared to answer all relevant questions honestly and to the best of his ability.” She looked at Detective Hall, mostly to annoy Detective Lowe. “What is the purpose of your questioning Mr. Speedwell?”

  Lowe slammed his palms on the table. “I’m the senior detective and I’ve had enough of this. I’ll ask the questions and they’re going to be directed to, and answered by, Mr. Speedwell, not some hot-shot lawyer. ”

  Heather returned his frozen gaze. “Please, Mr. Lowe. There’s no need for raising your voice or acts of petulance. Ask your questions, and do so in a civilized manner. If you cannot, then I’ll advise my client to invoke his Fifth Amendment rights and you’ll leave here with no information. I’ll also file a formal complaint against you and provide your superiors with a copy of this recording. It will then be up to you to explain why your rude behavior kept you from acquiring the information you seek. I already told you my client is willing to cooperate.”

  Detective Lowe took in a deep breath and hissed it out. “Mr. Speedwell, you found the body of Ned Logan?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What time?”

  “About eleven forty-five.”

  “Where did you find the body?”

  “The bottom of his exercise pool, at his residence.”

  “What were you doing at his home?”

  “I needed signatures on some real estate documents.”

  “Was Mr. Logan your attorney?”

  “Yes.” He looked at Heather. “He was one of my legal advisors.”

  “Was Mr. Logan your business partner?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

  “There was no formal partnership. Ned invested heavily in a real estate development I’m completing near Lake Conroe.”

  “How heavily?”

  “A couple million dollars and a ton of legal work. It’s a very large development.”

  “How much return on his investment did he realize before he was murdered?”

  “Interest only, up to now.”

  “Isn’t that a rather odd arrangement?”

  “Ned trusted me to come through, and I will. I guess now it’ll go to his wife, who will most likely blow it–but I’ll pay it all the same.”

  “Or make it disappear?” asked Detective Hall.

  The lone question caused Heather to shift her focus to the man who waited for just the right moment to pounce. She broke in. “Don’t respond to that, Mr. Speedwell. You have no idea what Mrs. Logan will or won’t do. Detective Hall is presupposing fiscal misconduct on your part.”

  “When are the repayments of principal and interest to begin?” asked Detective Hall.

  “Interest has been ongoing. The first six months’ principal and interest payments are already in an escrow account.”

  “How are the payments structured?”

  “Eighty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three dollars a month for the next ten years.”

  Heather spoke up. “That’s one million dollars a year for ten years.”

  Brant Speedwell issued her a nod.

  She glanced at each detective. Detective Lowe appeared stunned by the amount while Hall remained poker-faced. “Are you finished with your questions?”

  “Not quite,” said Detective Lowe. He stared at Brant Speedwell. “Have you ever been arrested for a criminal offense?”

  “Not as an adult.”

  “What about as a juvenile?”

  Everything in her wanted to tell Brant not to answer. Except in rare cases, juvenile records are sealed. She wasn’t fooled, but she needed to see how Brant would respond. She also knew the detectives were fishing for a reaction. They already knew the answer.

  Brant hung his head. “I was arrested for involuntary manslaughter when I was fifteen.”

  “That involved a drowning also, didn’t it?” />
  “It was an accident. The charges were dropped.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The next morning Heather pulled the cruiser into the driveway of the Logan’s home. The air fresheners she’d attached to the air conditioner vents gave the car a smell that combined a nursing home, a pine forest, ocean breezes and a flower shop. Steve rode the whole way with his nose pinched. She glanced over at him. “Serves you right for buying this rust bucket and making me dress as Pat Beerhalter again.”

  He swung the door open and inhaled deeply. “Let’s get inside before Holmes and Watson get here.”

  “Their names are Detectives Lowe and Hall. How much time do you think we have?”

  Steve shrugged. “Kate didn’t know for sure. They wanted her, Connor, and Carey all here first thing this morning. I’m hoping we can talk to each of them and be gone before they show up.”

  “Steve, our lawn maintenance guy is here again.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Unloading bags of mulch.”

  Steve stepped out of the car. “Can he hear me?”

  “Not now. He carried a bag of mulch to the back yard.”

  “See if you can have a word with him before we leave.”

  Heather scanned the street and peeked in the garage. “I don’t see Connor’s car. He may still be at the gym with Sunny LaForce.”

  She placed Steve’s hand on her forearm and headed to the front door. Steve whispered, “Was that a hint of jealousy I heard in your voice when you said, ‘Sunny LaForce?’”

  “Not jealousy. Wariness. I can’t get past the feeling that Connor is a lamb standing at the door of the sheep shearer. Or worse, the butcher just took an order for lamb chops.”

  Inside, Steve accepted Kate’s invitation to join her at the breakfast table for coffee. Heather begged off and made her way to the back yard, assuming the persona of Pat Beerhalter.