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IT HAD NOT BEEN EASY for Carter to get the women out of Harriet’s apartment after that. Gertie had been reluctant to leave without her pistol. She was relieved that her handgun had been found (albeit at the bottom of Harriet’s knitting basket) and was unsympathetic to the argument that the firearm would have to be kept as evidence.
But Carter did eventually persuade the ladies to be on their way, by hinting at the possibility of imprisonment (and with no help from Deputy Breaux, who was afraid of Ida Belle). The deputies spent a few more minutes in the sweltering apartment, taking pictures and bagging evidence.
Breaux walked back to the station to catalog the items: bloodstain scrapings; a pair of pajama pants with a small floral print similar to the one on the top found wrapped around the victim; the .22 allegedly belonging to Gertie Hebert; and a man’s shoe that Mary-Alice had found under an armoire. Carter got into his truck and set out for the Swamp Bar. Deal Properties, Incorporated’s friendly receptionist had told him Adam Sampson liked to hang out there.
Carter was sure to receive a less-than-warm welcome at the Swamp Bar, and he wasn’t looking forward to going in alone. But it was better that way. At the sight of two deputy sheriffs coming their way across the shell-paved lot, Whiskey and Nickel would likely lock up and board up the windows before the deputies could reach the door.
Carter found Adam Sampson at the end of the bar, slumped forward, his forehead resting on his hand. As Carter approached, Adam looked up, and even in the low, cockroach-friendly light of the Swamp Bar, he could tell the boy had been crying.
Carter nodded and took the seat next to Sampson. Nickel was tending bar. Carter greeted him and ordered a Coke.
“In the can,” he added, earning a glare from the man.
Sampson stared into his empty glass.
“Hey,” Carter said. “I’m sorry about what happened to your boss.”
“She killed him,” he muttered.
“Who’s this now?” Carter kept his tone casual.
“She hated him.”
He turned his pale gaze to Carter. “She made up bad things about him, Deputy. All lies. It wasn’t true at all. Everybody loved Mr. Deale.”
“Well now, it seems not everybody loved him,” Carter pointed out reasonably. “So who’s this who you say hated him?”
Carter was thinking of Regina Strathairn, the receptionist who had marked her boss’s murder with party hats and champagne. Could she have killed Deale? She was in great shape for her age—she had told him so herself. But she was closer to sixty than fifty, and petite. All the spin classes in the world wouldn’t make her capable of carrying a corpse twice her weight down the stairs from Harriet’s apartment to the front of the building. If she killed Deale, she had help.
“Forget it,” Sampson was saying. “I don’t need the law. This is between me and her. I’ll take care of it.”
“Now, Mr. Sampson, I don’t recommend you taking matters into your own hands. If you know something, your best bet is to tell me. If anyone committed a murder, I’ll make sure that person is caught and punished. That’s how it works.”
“How are you gonna catch her?” Sampson demanded. His tone briefly caught the attention of the dozen or so day-drinkers scattered around the bar. “She’s gone!”
“Who are you talking about?”
Adam glared at him, but told him anyway.
“Harriet Hamilton.”
“Harriet!”
“I know. She fooled me too. I used to think she was such a nice lady. But she’s not. She told all kinds of lies about Mr. Deale. Indecent things. He told me so himself.”
“Now why would she do that?” Carter asked gently.
“She wanted to ruin him. That’s just what he told me, Deputy. Ruin him. And she did.”
Sampson’s lip began to tremble, and Carter quickly cut in:
“Harriet Hamilton killed Mr. Deale? Harriet the book shop lady?”
Deale had been murdered in Harriet’s apartment, or at least that’s how it looked to Carter. But why wrap him in her pajama top? And how did she get him down the stairs?
Sampson was holding in his tears in with great effort.
“Okay, okay,” Carter said, in an attempt to calm him. “Do you have any information for me? Details of the crime?”
Sampson shook his head.
“Where is Harriet Hamilton now?” Carter persisted. “Do you have any idea?”
“Gone. I told you. Gone.”
The dam broke, and Sampson collapsed onto the bar, sobbing like a child.