Chapter Twenty-Three

Blonde hair fell forward as Chrys buried her face in her hands again, and her shoulders shook with sobs. “Why didn’t she tell me? I would have gone home. Taken care of her.”

Royce’s hand hovered over the trembling young woman. She finally dared stroke her shoulder. At least there was no sense of withdrawal from her touch this time. “I’m sure she knew you would do that. And she didn’t want to disrupt your life.”

After several minutes, Chrys fumbled in her bag for a tissue and blew her nose. “But what does Mom’s having cancer have to do with the possibility of Thelma Morrell being involved in her death?”

Royce didn’t really want to pursue it with Chrys until she knew more. But now she’d brought it up, she knew Chrys wouldn’t drop the subject. What had Lily meant? She was going to “get a substantial sum for her children, a legacy, from someone she used to know.” Did she mean Thelma Morrell? Writing of when she left Fall Creek, she’d said the FBI was still looking for “us.” The FBI agent, Howard, had asked about Thelma on Sunday. Why were they interested in Thelma’s whereabouts?

At the studio, Thelma had asked her sister, Suze Mackie, why she didn’t stay in California. At the café, Hal threatened Thelma with the FBI, something about being dragged back to California as a fugitive. Even Lucianne Sibley had asked about Thelma’s past. And just now Debra McGrath asked Jared if there was a connection between the shooting of Lucianne and Hal’s arrest.

Had Lily come back to Fall Creek to extort money from Thelma in exchange for silence about their past? Could Thelma have killed Lily? Thelma was not a small woman. But could a woman have inflicted all the damage to Lily’s cancer-ravaged body? Had Lucianne discovered Thelma’s secret and threatened to reveal it, so Thelma had shot her, meaning to kill her?

“Royce?” Chrys asked.

“I’m not sure what’s going on, Chrys.” She pulled back into the street. “We’ll go to the police station and see what Chief Granite has to say.”

When they were a couple of blocks from police headquarters, Royce spoke again. “I have to tell Chief Granite about another conversation I overheard on Sunday.”

God, was it just day before yesterday?

“Sunday. When you were at the festival and came back wearing that awful scarf?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

Royce hesitated. “One of the people that day was also Thelma Morrell.”

“Who was the other one? What did they talk about?”

“They argued about the robbery, mostly. And the man accused her of being involved in Bert’s murder. They mentioned Palm, and I was so afraid something terrible had happened to him.”

“That they’d killed him, too? Why?”

“It sounded like they had set him up to be accused of the robbery, but they talked about a woman at a motel, too. I had no idea what they were talking about.”

“But now you think it might have been my mother they were talking about?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the man talking to Mrs. Morrell?”

“I thought he was an FBI agent. He was with the other one, Agent Howard, when they came to my house Sunday morning after you stopped by.”

“Did they come together?”

Chrys had learned a few questioning techniques from her attorney employers, Royce thought. It seemed to be helping to temporarily calm her emotional distress.

“No. Now that I think about it. Howard came around my house, from the front, and Clupper crossed over my violet bed from the Woodstone backyard.”

“Who was in charge? Who did the talking?”

“Howard, at first. And he seemed to warn Clupper back. But then Clupper came nearer, and Howard let him talk, accuse, actually.”

“Accuse?” Chrys frowned, as though trying, like Royce, to make some sense out of the encounter.

“Accused me of knowing where Palm was. That I could get in trouble if I was concealing him. Howard just stood there and didn’t stop him. So I suggested they both leave. They went.”

“Together?”

“Well, that’s another thing. They left in different cars. I thought it a little odd at the time.”

“Who or what do you suppose this Clupper is?”

“Maybe we’ll find out soon.”

Royce pulled into the official parking lot beside the headquarters building. The chief’s car was in his assigned spot already. She and Chrys hurried through the front door of the station.

Chuck Brand waved them on to the hall leading to the chief’s office. “Chief said send you on in when you arrived, Royce.”

“Thanks, Chuck.” Leading the way, Royce set her shoulders and took a deep breath. She did not relish this conversation.

When they entered the chief’s office, Royce paused for a second in surprise. The office seemed crowded with men, though in fact, in addition to the chief there were only two. They stood against the wall on the left side.

Lucianne, seated in one of the two wooden straight chairs which had been pulled away from the wall where they usually sat, looked up as they entered. “Hello, Royce. Chrys.”

Chief Granite frowned at her and spoke. “Mrs. Thorne, Ms. Wynter. I believe you know Special Agent Howard.” Howard’s head dipped a bare fraction in a nod. “This is Special Agent Price.”

The hard-faced man they had seen enter the FBI van at the Woodstone house gave Royce a long look and then Chrys.

Granite added, “Ms. Wynter is the victim’s daughter.”

“Where is your other partner, Agent Howard?” Royce asked, as she took the vinyl chair farthest from Lucianne. “Clupper, was it?”

“Mr. Clupper is not with the Bureau,” Howard said.

“May I ask why you allowed me to believe that he was ‘with the Bureau’?” Royce asked, the anger in her voice not quite controlled.

Howard crossed his arms over his chest. “Since you didn’t ask him for ID, I assumed you could tell he was not.”

Royce considered disputing that the agent held that assumption. She decided she wanted information more than an argument with little chance she could win. “Who, then, is Mr. Clupper?”

“Mr. Clupper is a private agent in the employ of Mrs. Thelma Morrell. Why?”

Royce looked at Chief Granite. “On Sunday, after Agent Howard and Mr. Clupper visited and threatened me in my own backyard, I saw him again.”

“Where?” Howard asked.

Still speaking to the chief, Royce continued. “I saw him here in this building, as I left your office. Sergeant Brand sent him on in here. In a few minutes, he left and I followed him downtown, where he met Thelma Morrell.”

“Since he is, was, in her employ, what do you think is the significance of this meeting, Mrs. Thorne?” Howard demanded.

“The significance, Agent Howard, is their conversation, which I overheard.”

“Please tell us the substance of that conversation.” Royce thought she detected a sharpened interest in the FBI agent’s attention.

“Among other accusations, each accused the other of taking the money from the dealership office. It sounded as though they had set Palm Woodstone up for the robbery, but something didn’t go according to plan.” Royce hesitated. She wished mightily that Chrys was not seated in the chair next to her.

“Go on, Mrs. Thorne,” the chief directed.

“Clupper accused Mrs. Morrell of killing her husband. They each also accused the other of killing some woman.” She heard a sharp intake of breath from Chrys.

“What woman?”

“They didn’t say. And each accused the other of being in possession of a sum of money, presumably proceeds of the robbery. Thelma, Mrs. Morrell, started to say a name, and apparently, he grabbed her. She told him to let go of her arm and left. After a moment, the man left, and then I did and went home.”

“Is that all?” Howard asked, skepticism in his voice.

Royce looked at him. Then she turned to the chief. “All of that specific conversation. But Chrys and I overheard another conversation a little while ago.”

“Between Mrs. Morrell and Clupper again?” Howard still sounded doubtful.

“No. Mrs. Morrell and Hal Woodstone.”

“Is that conversation the reason you wanted to know if a search had been made of the Woodstone house?” Chief Granite asked.

“Yes. I thought your department was conducting the search. When we arrived, it was the FBI. Why? I still don’t understand how the FBI is involved here. And what did they find?”

“As to what we found, Mrs. Thorne, that’s official information.” Howard’s eyes bored into Royce. “Why were you interested in whether there had been a search?”

She took a deep breath and reached for Chrys’s hand. “By then, I was pretty sure that Hal Woodstone might have killed his ex-wife, Lily.”

A small moan escaped from Chrys as her nails dug into Royce’s palm.

Lucianne had been examining Royce from under long eyelashes. They flew up at Royce’s accusation. “Nice guy,” she muttered.

Royce stared into Lucianne’s green eyes until a silent communication seemed to pass between them. The redhead shrugged and broke eye contact.

There was silence for a moment. The two FBI agents exchanged looks. “What evidence led you to that conclusion?”

“None. Conjecture. I was hoping something to support it would be found in his house.”

“Such as?” Chief Granite demanded.

Royce put her other hand over the girl’s tightly clenched fingers. “Boots. Hal and Palm always wore similar boots when they were working in the greenhouse and nursery stock. I wondered if a comparison had been made of Palm’s boots and the injuries inflicted on Lily.” She glanced at Chief Granite. “And Hal’s.”

The chief hesitated, sighing. “Such a comparison was made. Why do you think his bond was set so high?”

Chrys jumped up. “Are you saying Palm Woodstone did kill my—his own mother by kicking her to death?”

Chief Granite waited for a beat. He looked as though he would like to be anywhere else but his office at that moment. “That’s for a jury to decide, Ms. Wynter. I’m sorry you have to hear this.”

Royce wondered about the chief’s hesitation. “Was there something else, Chief? Something found in the boots, maybe?”

The two FBI agents looked at her with a hint of respect. Chief Granite looked thoughtful for a second, then answered, “Yes. Thick wads of cotton and two pairs of socks were inside Palm’s boots. What made you think there might be something?”

“Palm’s feet are several sizes larger than Hal’s. His mother’s feet were unusually large for such a petite woman.”

“Yes,” Chrys choked.

“Palm inherited his large feet from Lily. Such a minor thing, but it was a sore point with Hal. He must have deliberately…” Royce didn’t want to finish the thought.