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Harlan was doing his best to put on a brave face, but he looked like he’d lost his best friend. Maybe he had, although Adam didn’t want to think about that. Adam made sure Harlan was as comfortable as possible in the jail cell. He assigned him to a unit at the far end of the row of cells, away from the two other prisoners currently “guests” of the Ironwood Junction PD.
After processing the paperwork, Adam had Harlan brought to the interview room. Harlan continued to waive his right to an attorney, steadfastly proclaiming his innocence and his faith in Adam.
Adam was both touched and upset about Harlan’s “faith.” It made him more determined to get to the bottom of the case, but he had to do it without digging the hole deeper for Harlan.
Adam placed a cup of coffee on the table for his friend. “Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Tell me how Wallace Ryall came to sell you his father’s estate.”
“Oh, he didn’t sell me his father’s estate. Reuben Ryall bequeathed me his collection. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”
Adam jotted down details in his notebook. “Why did he choose you for this honor?”
“Reuben and I knew each other for years. Mostly because he liked to scour the antiques stores looking for gems to add to his collection. He especially liked swords, knives, and military memorabilia. But he also had a fondness for books and kitschy items.”
“Like that clown clock?”
“And worse. Take this butt-ugly face jug piece he had. Looks like a child made it, with broken plates for teeth, but it’s nineteenth-century porcelain folk art. Some folks pay five thousand dollars for that type of thing. I kinda like that little clown clock, though I’d only get a couple hundred for it. Think I was the only in the world who liked clowns.”
“Why did Ryall leave his collection to you instead of his two sons?”
“Guess it’s okay to repeat what he said, now he’s dead and all. Every time he came in, he’d have something bad to say about those boys. The oldest, Ramsay, started out kinda shaky in his business endeavors but eventually did okay. I think he and his father were on the outs, though, something about his wife, I think.”
“And the youngest son?”
“The youngest,” Harlan paused to lick his lips. “That’s the one who was killed, Wallace. He was estranged from his brother. Hardly saw each other. Wally made all the right moves about doting on his father, or at least the appearance of doting. Reuben called him a major suck-up.”
“What caused the estrangement between the brothers?”
“A joint business venture that went south. Don’t know the details, you see.”
“This argument witnesses saw between you and the victim. What was that all about?”
“Wallace wanted to buy back his father’s collection. But he offered me a ridiculously low price for it all. And he didn’t want to buy it piecemeal, either. He was adamant he wanted every single last item. When I told him his offer was insulting, he threatened to sue me and put me out of business any way he could.”
“The witnesses say you pushed him, told him not to mess with you.”
“I poked him in the chest. Once. Like an exclamation mark, you see. I do it all the time. Even to you.”
Adam knew that to be a fact, being on the receiving end of many an “exclamation mark” from Harlan. “And the part about not messing with you?”
“Now, there you’ve got me. I haven’t a clue what those people thought they heard. I think I said something along the lines of ‘I guess you’ll just have to meet my price or walk away.’ But that was it. Nothing threatening.”
Adam wrote that down. After all the conflicting witness statements Adam had collected in his time, Harlan could well be telling the truth. “How much are we talking about, the value of Ryall senior’s collection?”
“All told, about a hundred grand. Depends upon the market, you see. Collectible prices are worse than riding a roller coaster. Go up and down a lot faster.”
“You had no idea the sword from that collection was missing?”
“None. It was there when I checked that case a couple days ago.”
“Do you have any idea how a handkerchief with your monogram and the victim’s blood ended up at the scene?”
“I keep a few of those handkerchiefs in my office desk drawer at the shop. I guess if the killer stole the sword, he could have stolen the hankie then, too.”
Adam wrote down more notes, then paused to look up at Harlan. “And now for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Where were you yesterday between one and five?”
“It’s Sunday, Adam, my day off. And it’s December. You know what that means.”
Adam groaned. “Please don’t tell me you went ice fishing.”
“Of course, I did. Though technically, it wasn’t ice fishing since there’s not enough ice yet. But it sure felt icy due to the low temps, so that sorta counts.”
“Alone?”
“Well, a certain detective doesn’t want to go with me anymore, so yeah, alone.”
Adam forgot for a moment the whole alibi issue. “It’s dangerous to go ice fishing alone, Harlan.”
“I’ve gone ice fishing on my own since before you were born.”
“You’re no longer in your twenties. Or thirties. Or forties.”
“Bah. Don’t matter. Besides, it’d be hard for me to drown with all the pollution. Could grab onto an old tire. Or all the chemicals and phosphorus from runoff would create mutant algae big enough I could use ‘em as stepping stones.”
Adam sighed and started writing in the notepad again. “Are you familiar with the remote forested area off Happy Valley Road? It’s north of White River, abutting Pierce Wigley’s farming property. But on the far side, where he doesn’t go that often. The only reason Wigley found Ryall’s body was that he was checking on some of his sapling sugar maple trees to see if they survived the last snowstorm.”
“I know where old man Wigley’s farm is, ayah. But I’ve never driven along that particular road, near as I recall. You’d need an off-roader for that, wouldn’t ya?”
Adam was well aware that Harlan was notoriously opposed to giant vehicles that passed for “cars.” Humvees, trucks with boat-sized wheels, monster SUVs. He didn’t like to drive at all, though he tolerated his little Subaru.
That was another point in Harlan’s favor since he was right—Happy Valley Road was tough even by Vermont standards and wasn’t plowed recently. Being early in the winter season, some of the snow had melted, making the road passable, if just. Adam didn’t tell Harlan the tire treads they’d seen on that road didn’t match his Subaru, but then Harlan or anyone else could have used a borrowed or stolen car.
Adam flipped over a page in the notebook. “If we’re looking for alternative suspects for Wallace Ryall’s death, seems like his brother would be high on that list. Maybe his sister-in-law, too, from what you said. Anyone else who had a beef with the guy?”
“I wish I could help you there, Adam, but I really didn’t know him that well. Only through what his father told me. And he never said boo about enemies.”
Adam finished writing up his notes and closed the ledger. “Harlan, I hope you realize how truly sorry I am about all of this. Hopefully, the judge will take your limited flight risk into consideration tomorrow at the arraignment.”
“If he does, what then?”
“Then, we can get you out on bail.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Adam leaned back in his chair and swallowed the acid rising up in his throat. “We won’t worry about that yet. One thing at a time.”
He ushered Harlan to his cell and made sure the older man was settled in as comfortably as possible, then headed toward his own office. As he rounded a corner, he bumped into someone wearing his “standard” police uniform accessory, a perpetual scowl.
Sergeant Moody’s frown grew deeper when he saw who had bumped into him. “Detective Dutton, either you’re in a hurry, or you need glasses.”
“Sorry, Mike. Distracted, actually.”
“Yes, well, your distraction quite nearly broke my wrist.”
Adam stole a quick peek at Moody’s wrist, which looked pretty normal to him. The baby.
Moody said, “Just be more careful, Dutton,” and hurried off.
Shaking his head at the odd encounter, Adam arrived at his office and grabbed his address book. He flipped through it until he landed on Gilbert Deniere and dialed the number. “Gil, it’s Adam Dutton. Got a favor to ask. You’re a banker, so you must have known your late banker associate, Reuben Ryall.”
“Ryall? Sure, we crossed paths many times. What’s this about?”
Adam explained the situation and asked if Deniere knew about Ryall’s antiques collection and hobby and if he was aware of Harlan doing business with the man. Deniere verified everything Harland said, which was a relief. But one thing he added made Adam’s heart sink. Ryall, senior, was friends with Adam’s nemesis, Mayor Titus Lehmann—enough to make a contribution to the mayor’s re-election campaign.
Though that didn’t bode well, Ryall apparently didn’t have connections to Reggie Forsythe, Adam’s other adversary. Only that one was currently lying in a coma and hopefully not able to try to attack Adam through Harlan and this whole murder case fiasco.
If Reggie Forsythe weren’t in a coma, he’d have been Adam’s number one suspect—a healthy Forsythe would be willing to do anything to get back at Adam, including hurting the people Adam cared about the most.
Adam thanked Deniere for his time and reached into his desk drawer for some antacids. This was one of those days he wished he’d become an accountant like his grandfather. And it wasn’t noon yet.
He popped the antacids and picked up the phone again. Harlan was still in jail, and Adam would do everything he could to make sure the man didn’t spend the rest of his life there. He’d work non-stop, on his days off, on his nights off, even unpaid overtime. Whatever it took.
