Fran lightly tapped each word – Oh Bill, I need you. – with the tip of the pen. Briefly she closed her eyes, then opened them, sat straight, chin lifted. ‘Come on, Fran.’ Her voice was stern. ‘Do what Bill always told you to do. Put everything in order. Make a plan.’ She picked up the pen, printed fast.
I went to dinner last night at Travis and Jennifer’s. Travis was full of plans for the big art festival next summer. He told us Sylvia Chandler was going to make him the featured artist. We carried our coffee into the living room, Travis still talking nineteen to the dozen. And then he decided he wanted to tell Sylvia he’d just finished a new painting that would be perfect for the festival poster. He pulled out his cell, called her and launched into a description of the painting, said the dimensions were perfect for big posters. Then he broke off. I guess she interrupted, his face got all twisted in a frown. He hunched his shoulders, exploded, ‘You told me I’d be featured. You can’t do that to me. I’ve told people and I’ve got a painting for the poster—’ Suddenly he held out the phone, stared at it, his face all jutty, the way he looks when he’s furious. I knew she’d hung up on him. The back of his neck turned red. He jammed the phone in his pocket, started for the door. He was swearing. I ran after him, grabbed his arm. He pulled away. He was so mad I don’t think he even saw me. He slammed the door. In a minute we heard the car roar. I asked Jennifer why she didn’t do anything to stop him. She gave me an aren’t-you-silly look, said, ‘Oh you know Travis, he’ll get it out of his system.’ I kept pressing her, said she’d better go after him, go up to the Chandler house and see if she could smooth things over. Finally she gave a sigh and said, ‘Oh all right, I’ll take Buddy out and go up and see if he’s there, remind Sylvia artists are artists.’ She took Buddy and left. I thought Jennifer was probably going around the block and would come back and look vague and say everything was fine. I paced up and down for a few minutes and decided I had to do something. I hurried out to the street. Travis’s car was parked halfway up the hill.
‘Halfway up the hill? Why halfway up the hill?’
Fran stiffened. Her head slowly turned. Had I been visible, we would have been looking at each other. ‘You’re here.’
It is good that I’m not sensitive. She might have sounded equally thrilled if a tarantula was perched on her shoulder. I simply said, ‘I need to know exactly what happened last night.’
‘Hearing voices isn’t considered healthy.’ Her tone was flat. ‘But I can’t see you,’ she spoke with more energy, ‘and please keep it that way. No wiggly colors. Anyway, who cares if you’re here. I have to get last night straight in my mind. If I tell you everything, maybe I won’t hear you anymore.’ She ended up sounding quite cheerful. ‘OK. Halfway up the hill? Those woods belong to the Chandlers. It’s quicker to take a path through the woods to stairs that lead up to the terrace than to go to the house and park in the drive and ring the bell.’
‘He must have felt on close terms with Mrs Chandler to take the back way to see her.’
‘As close as he could manage. She was a mover and shaker in the art world. He saw her as his ticket to fame and fortune.’
‘So he came and went there often?’
‘Always with a painting. Or to talk about a painting. I don’t even know if he liked her personally. Travis isn’t interested in people unless they can help his career.’
A young man. An attractive older woman. ‘Was he having an affair with her?’ Sam once told me there are two triggers for most murders. Sex. Or money.
‘He took the back path for convenience. Not sex. Sylvia Chandler was devoted to Arthur. This is a small town. Never any gossip about Sylvia Chandler. Travis was looking out for his career. He’s an ambitious artist. Insanely ambitious? Maybe. He’s good. He knows he’s good. He’d say he’s a brilliant artist. Sylvia knew her art. Did you look around the library? She collected art. She wrote articles for Art in America. She was director of the Art League and chair of Adelaide’s Summer Art Festival. Invitation only. Being a featured artist at the festival guarantees lots of sales and attention from dealers and everyone who matters in the regional art world.’
I seized on the salient point. ‘He started off in a fury to confront her.’
‘That’s just Travis. It doesn’t mean anything. He loses his temper. He shouts. Storms around. That’s all. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.’ But her eyes held a dark burden of fear.
The treks up the hillside came into focus. An ambitious artist. The director of the festival taking away his starring role. Travis slamming out of the house to go and protest. His wife following, though without enthusiasm. Fran seeking both of them.
I wondered if Fran’s desperate urgency to find Travis was prompted by fear that this time his anger was beyond control, this time he moved in a red haze of fury, this time he would attack his tormentor.
‘Jennifer went after him because you pushed her. Why did you go after them?’ I watched her carefully. Would she tell me the truth?
She started to speak, stopped, took a breath. ‘Old habits are hard to break. My mom married his dad when Travis was four. Maybe we all spoiled him, excused any tantrums because he was so gifted. He was already drawing.’ A little touch of awe in her voice. ‘He drew a galloping horse when he was only four that was amazing. I still have it. We all did everything we could to smooth the path for him, always excusing his quick temper. Artistic nature, you know. It was like watching a flamingo grow up. Special. I’ve always known he fudges the truth to get what he wanted. Last night I was Fran to the rescue one more time.’
I felt she spoke the truth, but perhaps not the whole truth. That dark fear flickered in her eyes.
‘I wanted to save him from ruining his future. Sylvia wasn’t a good person to antagonize. I know a bit about Sylvia Chandler.’ Fran’s voice hardened. ‘She always looked at the bottom line and to hell with any collateral damage. A better-known artist would be a bigger draw. If Travis didn’t like it, that was his problem. That’s who she was. I thought I’d catch Jennifer, maybe persuade her to apologize to Sylvia, smooth everything over, promise he’d do everything to support the festival. He would have agreed after he got over his madness because it’s a fabulous festival.’
‘So you reached Travis’s car and started on the path that leads to the stairs. Why did you leave the path and go up the hill through the woods?’ That decision brought her on to the terrace from the side and into the view of the security camera. Travis and Jennifer came up the steps and must have left by the steps.
She shivered. ‘I was on the path when I heard someone running. It scared me. There was something wild about the sound.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘I veered off the path and got into the deep woods. Frankly, I was hiding behind a big shrub. Then there was a clatter on the stairs, fast, faster.’
‘Do you think it was Travis?’
‘I don’t know.’ The answer was slow. ‘I didn’t really think. I just heard someone running and I was frightened, so I crouched behind this big bush and then someone was running on the path toward the street. I almost turned back but the running steps worried me. The steps were loud. I was almost sure I heard a man running. A big man. Oh, I knew it might be Travis. Why would he run? I felt I had to go up to the terrace, make sure everything was all right. I stayed in the woods. The stairs are lighted and I didn’t want to be seen. It was a terrible climb. So dark. Tree branches creaking in the wind. I kept feeling like I wasn’t alone. And after I heard the man running, oh I think I was almost to the top of the hill, I heard someone else on the stairs, a quick patter of feet. That must have been Jennifer. I don’t know how I forced myself to keep going. Then it was awfully quiet. I got to the terrace. I saw the open door in the east wing and the lights flooding across the terrace. I could see a yellow door into the main portion of the house. It was closed. I looked across the terrace but the other wing was mostly in dark shadow. I looked again at the wide-open door. That open door on a cold night seemed wrong. I took one step and another and then I was at the door. I looked inside. I didn’t see anyone but I had a bad feeling. Something was wrong and Travis had been here. I went inside. The room was cold. Quiet. I kept walking and I came even with the sofa. I saw her. I thought I was going to faint. I saw the poker lying on the hearth. Someone crushed the life out of her and Travis had been terribly angry. I knew I should call the police, but how could I explain why I was there? And I didn’t know where Travis was or if he had seen Sylvia. I just couldn’t force myself to call anyone. I scarcely knew what I was doing. I looked all around the room, but there was nothing out of place and no one there. Somehow I stumbled back out on to the terrace.’
I pictured what may have happened. Travis left his house in a fury, parked the car on the street, took the path through the woods to the stairs, climbed to the terrace. Meanwhile, Jennifer left the house with the dog. Almost certainly Travis entered the library to confront Sylvia. Either he killed her or found her body. Jennifer reached the steps. Fran started out after Jennifer and Travis. Running steps. Fran was frightened and darted into the woods. Likely Jennifer too was shocked and took cover. I was sure Travis ran away from the library and down the steps. Clearly Jennifer then went up to the terrace, tied Buddy to the railing. Likely she too entered the library, saw Sylvia’s body, and hurriedly fled, abandoning Buddy. Then Fran arrived at the side of the terrace, stepped into the view of the security camera.
Fran clasped her hands tightly together. ‘I was shivering on the terrace and I heard Buddy yipping. I found him tied to the railing by the stairs.’
‘Think back to those running steps.’
‘Heavy steps. A man running. It almost had to be Travis.’ A reluctant admission. ‘He’s always run from trouble, let other people pick up the pieces. I think he found her body and rushed out. Maybe Jennifer saw him. She certainly would have heard a man running. She’s always vague and says whatever but even she would have wondered what was going on. I imagine she crept across the terrace, reached the door, listened, didn’t hear anything. She double-dared herself to go inside, take a look.’
‘Double-dared?’
‘My sister-in-law is vague but she gets sharp if anything will affect her. She knew Travis stormed out to talk to Sylvia. She heard a man running. Travis’s temper never bothered her. She gets this little gleam in her eyes and says, “I always tell him his pictures are the best in the whole world.” She’ll give a little laugh and says he agrees, so he’s happy. She knew he was crazy mad. That open door would seem odd. Grown-ups don’t play double-dare. It’s Jennifer’s mantra. I don’t know how many times she’s said, “I double-dared myself to …” Jennifer trills on and recounts some episode where she, Double-Dare Brave Jennifer, accomplishes a daunting task. Oh yes, Jennifer would go inside. She found the body. She must have flown out of that room and run wildly to the steps and skittered down and raced straight home. She probably realized halfway there that she’d left Buddy, but she’d decide somehow that would all work out. Never in a million years would she have gone back up the steps to get him. Knowing her she figured I was around somewhere and I’d hear him and Buddy would be fine. That’s how she thinks. The universe runs on a benign schedule for her benefit. And she will never admit she was anywhere near the Chandler library last night.’
‘She won’t have a choice.’ I was excited. ‘When Travis and Jennifer tell the police they both found Sylvia dead, you’ll be in the clear.’
‘When llamas tap dance. When Climate Changers throw a party for Frackers. When the Sahara is carpeted with four-leaf clovers.’
I was confident. ‘When the police arrest you, surely they will speak up.’
Fran shook her head. ‘Travis will paint some shocking splash of red and purple, admire his work, start the next painting. Jennifer will visit across a screen, huge-eyed, delighting in her Double-Dare Presence and ask, “What’s it like being in jail?”’
‘But you’re family.’ Mama always told us kids, “Doesn’t matter how cross you are with each other at home, out in the world, it’s one for all and all for one. You hear me now.”’
Fran’s laugh was short and not amused. ‘All families are dysfunctional, and I will be living proof. But dream on, Cheerful Voice. Anyway, you’ve overlooked one point.’
‘And that is?’
‘I’m positive Sylvia was dead when Travis and Jennifer arrived. I can’t prove it, but Travis explodes and then the next thing you know it’s an arm across your shoulders. Yes, he was angry but I don’t believe, won’t believe, he would ever hurt anyone.’
Her voice was thin and darkness in her eyes told me her insistence on his innocence reflected what she hoped was true, but that she wasn’t in her heart absolutely sure.
‘As for Jennifer,’ Fran was wry, ‘she might double-dare herself to go into the library, but she wasn’t angry with Sylvia. Jennifer thinks if she looks appealing enough everyone will be nice to her. Her double-dares are simply for moments of drama. But consider this, Cheerful Voice. What if Sylvia was alive when I went inside. What if I killed her?’
I was irritated. ‘Of course you didn’t.’
She looked intrigued. ‘How do you know for certain?’
‘You are innocent or I wouldn’t be here. The Department of Good Intentions protects the innocent.’
‘The Department of Good Intentions.’ The words wobbled a bit. ‘I’d like to believe you.’
I reached out, took her hands in mine, held them tight for a moment.
When I loosened my grasp, she managed a smile. ‘Thank you. With you on my side, maybe’ – again that word wobbled – ‘maybe the police won’t come back.’
‘Perhaps not.’ I like to be encouraging. ‘All the police have is circumstantial evidence. You were there, but so were a bunch of people with equal opportunity. As long as the police don’t find a compelling motive, you are safe.’
‘Motive?’ Her tone was bleak. ‘Oh. God.’
‘Excuse me.’ The deep voice was puzzled. ‘Are you on speakerphone?’
We both jerked toward the door.
Fran stared at Don Smith. She might have looked the same if she stood at the steps to a guillotine. The police. Here. Now. The imprint of past sorrows was evident in the depths of her gray eyes, the vulnerable droop of her lips. She lifted a hand to her throat as he walked across the room, his steps slow and heavy.
He loomed above her. ‘I’m off duty.’ His words were firm, but his face was that of a man unsure of his welcome.
‘Off duty.’ She repeated the words as if part of an unknown exotic language.
‘Off duty.’ Spoken with urgent force.
They gazed at each other, a man and a woman with their own particular stories of love and loss. He was tall, dark-haired, firm featured, a broad forehead, strong nose, blunt chin. Lines etched at the corners of his mouth suggested he’d faced hardship, might harbor painful memories. There was intelligence and empathy in his dark eyes. She looked as though she might once have been quick and eager and full of laughter, but those days were now just a memory.
‘I’m off duty.’ He repeated the words, his voice deep and strong.
She glanced around the store. ‘Can I interest you in a porcelain vase? A gift for your wife?’
He spoke slowly. ‘Gretchen died two years ago. Two years. Three months. Eighteen days.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The warmth in her voice was genuine, acknowledged how much loss hurts. Her eyes held understanding.
‘Thank you.’
I’m sorry and thank you are often automatic, with no emotional engagement. Not this time. She was sorry deep within. Her response touched him and his gratitude was heartfelt.
The tightness eased from his shoulders. ‘I didn’t come to shop. I wanted to tell you that Judy Weitz is my friend. And yours. “One who knows how to show and accept kindness will be a friend better than any possession.” I don’t remember dates and battles and chronology from Bill Loring’s classes. I remember the quotes he liked to share. That’s one of my favorites.’
Her lips curved in a quick smile. ‘Bill was a quote machine. I always botch them when I try to remember. I think what intrigued me the most when Bill talked about Cicero or Socrates is how real they were to me. He understood that people are people and it doesn’t matter if they lived in 40 BC or now.’
Don was eager. ‘In his class, I felt like Cicero was sitting beside me, giving me a quizzical look, maybe straightening his toga or drinking a glass of wine. Another good man who died violently.’
‘Violence.’ Fran was somber. ‘The same then as now.’
‘Yeah.’ Don gave a shrug. ‘That’s the downer to being a cop. Too much bad turns you hard. But the bad makes you value the good. Like Judy. She does her job, had to ID you when she saw the security clip. And she can’t hide what she knows about you and Sylvia Chandler. She talked to Gustavus Baldwin. She has to turn in her report but she said she has a lot of other stuff to deal with today so she won’t get her report written until late so it likely won’t be read until Monday.’
‘Gustavus Baldwin.’ Fran’s tone was bitter.
Don spoke quickly. ‘The report will be neutral, maybe say you disagreed with some of Sylvia’s actions as a Goddard trustee. No red flag there.’
‘Sylvia and Gus stole days from Bill.’ The words were heavy with anguish.
‘The report will be a recital of facts. No conclusions drawn. As sloppy as the department’s being run now, nobody may ever read Judy’s report. Right now you’re OK. Judy will keep her report to a minimum. Maybe a miracle will occur before Monday morning. But listen up, if you are arrested, don’t make a peep without a lawyer. Right now it’s Friday morning and you need a break. How about we go to Pawhuska, have lunch at Ree Drummond’s Mercantile?’
Fran stared at him uncertainly. ‘I know you’re off duty. But can police go on outings with suspects?’
His generous mouth broadened in a huge smile. ‘Maybe I’ll rewrite the manual, underline the necessity to consider character when investigating. You want the truth? As far as Detective Don Smith is concerned, Bill Loring’s widow is not a criminal. Not now. Not ever. As far as Detective Don Smith is concerned, suspecting you is stupid. I don’t do stupid.’
Fran’s lips curved in a quick smile. ‘I’ll take that as a tribute to Bill. Thank you.’ Her gray eyes studied him. ‘I have a feeling you may not do stupid, but you have a soft spot for a cat trapped in a tree or an old lady trying to cross a street and this time you’re giving me a boost because of Bill. I probably should say no. I shouldn’t make your life complicated. But I’d love to go. I’d love to drive away from everything that’s happened and be with a nice man and have a great lunch. So yes, I’ll go with you.’ She pulled out a desk drawer, retrieved her purse, stood. She quickly lifted a jacket from a coat tree, slipped into it. Her thin face was eager. On the way out, she flipped the Open sign, and they were out the door, his hand at her elbow.
I smiled as Don’s gorgeous car pulled away from the curb, heading for the highway leaving darkness behind them. The almost three-hour drive to Pawhuska would give them time to talk, to discover each other. I was curious about their destination. An Emporium? But it was many years since I’d been to Pawhuska. Of course there would be changes. In any event, they could be free and happy.
Free and happy until Monday when AC Howie Harris would seize on Judy Weitz’s report. All he needed for an arrest was a motive for Fran.
I turned on all the lights in Sam’s office, nudged the thermostat to 72. Despite the waft of warm air from the registers and the harsh fluorescent glare from the ceiling, Sam’s office seemed cheerless. I longed for the rumble of Sam’s deep voice as we sat on the old brown leather sofa. The office was alien without Sam’s presence.
Even more concerning, Howie Harris was making a mess of a murder investigation and he was actively conspiring to get Sam’s job. Sam needed to know. I thought, Sam’s car.
The familiar four-door brown sedan was parked in the graveled drive of a modest white frame house on a quiet street with elms and an excited terrier chasing a rabbit. I could have been in any small town in Oklahoma. Frame houses, modest residences, modest lives.
In the living room, Sam’s wife Claire was seated in a chintz-covered chair near a small heater, a Bible open in her lap. The furniture was old, worn, clean, tidy. Photographs in plastic frames offered smiling faces, memories of happy times, bits and pieces of particular moments in time. Claire’s face held sadness, acceptance.
Sam was in the front bedroom with white dimity curtains at the two windows, a brown oak dresser and vanity, and a bookcase filled with more framed pictures. He sat beside a double bed. He held in one large hand the small hand of the elderly woman lying quite still beneath a red-and-white quilt.
I gazed at the woman’s face, a big broad face and likely the hair now loose on the pillow had been coal black like Sam’s. He was a masculine replica of the woman.
She stirred, opened dark brown eyes.
He bent forward. ‘I’m here, Mom.’
She looked at him for a quiet moment, smiled and slipped again into sleep.
Sam was absent for the best reason in the world. Sam was absent from his post because of love.
I paused long enough in the living room to gaze over Claire’s shoulder, read the verse touched by her finger:
Philippians 4:8. Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, let your mind dwell on these things.
I can’t imagine a greater tribute from a daughter-in-law to her husband’s mother.
I returned to Sam’s office. I carried with me the sober realization that I was on my own. Saving Fran was my mission. I shrugged away Wiggins’s cryptic parting words Don and … and settled behind Sam’s desk. As I pulled out the M&M drawer to retrieve the printout of Don’s report, I felt reassured. Maybe Wiggins meant Don and I would save Fran. Right this minute Don and Fran were likely curving around a grove of bois d’arc on their way to Pawhuska. I was ready for a moment of cheer.
Fran was smiling. ‘It may be my favorite place in all the world. Trees on the cliffs bent by the wind. Fog rolling in from the sea. Cold as an ice chest in August. Bill and I went to Carmel every summer.’
‘Gretchen and I spent two weeks in the wine country a few years ago. She loved rosé. That was before the fires.’
The Corvette clung to a curve, traveling fast. Sun speared through Fran’s window and the little redwood house hanging from the rear-view mirror gleamed.
Fran reached out, touched the charm. ‘This looks like a tiny replica of a house. A very different house.’
Don glanced at the charm, straightened the car from the curve. ‘Gretchen was an architect. Her dream house. Our dream house. I’d like to show you the house.’ His face was open, unguarded. ‘One day soon.’
Fran gently cupped the swaying charm in her fingers. ‘One day soon.’
At Sam’s desk, I repeated the words like a mantra. One day soon … I slid out the M&M drawer, picked up the sheets of Don’s report and the M&M sack. The crunchy candies seemed to repeat One day soon … One day soon … I arranged the sheets in order, looked first at the dossier on Sylvia Cramer Chandler.
Sylvia Cramer Chandler
B. 3 September 1970, Phoenix, AZ. Graduate Arizona State University. Worked for a realty firm in Scottsdale while in school, full-time upon graduation. Became a million-dollar seller two years out of college. Established her own real-estate firm, Yellow Road Realty, in 1995. Married Wilbur Lane in 1998. No children. Divorced in 2002. Sold Arthur Chandler a condo in 2004. Married Arthur, a widower, six months later. Arthur inherited Chandler Exploration which was founded by his grandfather, Thomas Chandler. Sylvia was fascinated by the oil and gas business, made a point of mastering the intricacies of both exploration and production. She soon was Arthur’s chief assistant and became a vice president of the company in 2007. Sylvia loved Adelaide, said four seasons were better than hot and hotter. Sylvia was active in community projects, everything from a food pantry to the Art League to Community Chest. She and Arthur enjoyed golf, sailing, and an occasional trip to Paris. After her husband’s stroke, Sylvia assumed control of Chandler Exploration. She was on the Goddard Board of Trustees. Chandler’s three adult children arrived at the home last week after their father suffered another stroke. Arthur is now under the care of a hospice. Arthur’s longtime executive secretary Margaret Foster also resides at the house.
‘Howie Harris needs to investigate everyone who was in the house last night, not just Fran.’ I spoke aloud. Forcefully. I’ve lived long enough and I’ve served as an emissary from the department often enough to avoid declarative pronouncements. Except when I know I’m right. Just as Detective Don Smith announced that Bill Loring’s widow was not a criminal. Not now. Not ever. I agreed.
I remembered Fran’s dismissive laugh when I said Travis and Jennifer were family and surely they would step up if she was arrested and admit their presence at the Chandler house before Fran arrived.
Surely one of them would. Unless Travis was a murderer and his wife was protecting him.