Fran trembled. She drew in upon herself, as if shrinking from blows. Then she held the phone in the palm of her right hand, stared at the screen.
I was at her side, my hand on her arm. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘An awful whisper.’ Her breath came in jerks. She tapped the phone. ‘Don,’ her voice was a cry, the words running together, ‘I just got a call on my work phone. All whispers. High quivery whispers. Said I had to come to the Chandler terrace, claimed they saw me last night with the poker in my hand. A whisper … I don’t know. It could have been a man. It could have been a woman … Wanted me to come and have a little chat … I don’t know … a threat … I didn’t say a word … I’m’ – she gave me a funny little smile – ‘by myself … I won’t go anywhere … Don, I’m frightened … yes, I’ll be here.’
I pointed at her work phone. ‘Keep that safe. It will show you received a call and the number will be there. But it will probably be a burner phone.’
Acting Chief Harris would accuse Fran of buying a burner phone, calling her own number, keeping the call open long enough to account for a call, then discarding the burner.
‘Lock the doors. Get that gun. Don’t open the door for anyone but Don.’ I disappeared. Don was surely en route to the Chandler house. I joined him in the swift red car.
Don turned off the headlights as the Corvette came around a curve and began the climb to King’s Road. He eased to a stop midway up the hill, likely very near where Travis parked his SUV last night.
For a big man, Don moved quietly, melting out of the driver’s seat on to the sidewalk, closing the door without a sound. He was almost invisible in a dark sweater and slacks. He reached the path into the woods in two strides. He stopped, listened. With a pocket flashlight cupped in his left hand, he moved silently along the path. The night was still with no wind. An owl whooed in the distance. He used the light sparingly, turned it off at the first glimmer of the lights on the terrace staircase. A step, a pause, another step.
At the edge of the woods, he looked toward the stairs, dark except for the small spots of radiance afforded by the light poles. The owl whooed again. Slowly Don slipped to the foot of the steps, looked up. A faint wash of light was visible from the terrace. No one stood by the railing. Don ran lightly up the stairs. The owl’s cry was nearer.
He reached the top of the stairs. The terrace was dark except for a slice of light from the door at the west side of the terrace, the door with the wiped knobs, the red door. That door was ajar, just enough for some light to spill outside.
A woman screamed, a piercing ragged desperate scream. Again. And again.
Don ran toward the open door, yanked it wide, plunged into the hall.
Doors opened. Margaret Foster stood in the doorway of her office. She cried, ‘What’s wrong?’ A barefoot Stuart in baggy sweats peered down the hall. He looked as if he might have been yanked from a nap, his hair mussed, his expression befuddled. Jason Pace squeezed one hand as if still moving a pinball flipper. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Elise Douglas clung to the doorjamb of the pool room. ‘Help me. Someone help me.’ She jerked around, flung herself back toward the pool.
Don ran past her, gave a quick look in the deep end, executed a racing dive, stroked fast to the middle of the pool, arched down.
I gazed down into the water. Don was near the bottom, reaching out to a motionless body. Voices and steps sounded loud and frantic. Margaret rushed to Elise. ‘What’s wrong?’ Stuart Chandler was right behind her. Jason Pace hung back near the doorway, watched.
Elise pointed at the deep end of the pool. ‘He’s down there.’ Her voice shook, her face twisted in despair.
The surface rippled and Don appeared, Dwight Douglas in a rescue hold. Dwight’s battered head lolled to one side, a broken neck no longer able to support its weight. As his head rolled, blood seeped from the crushed portion of his skull.
Elise screamed. ‘His head. He’s hurt. Dwight’s hurt.’
Outside sirens wailed.
Don reached the edge of the pool with his burden, gestured to Stuart and Jason. Stuart hurried to the edge. Jason, his face pale, came slowly. As Don supported the dead man, Stuart and Jason each grasped an arm, tugged as Don heaved. The body came up and over the side.
Stuart was on his knees by the dead man, then he pushed up, walked to his sister, wrapped his arms around her rigid body. A few feet away, Margaret looked helpless and frightened. Near the diving board, Jason held to the ladder, bent over, violently retched. Crystal rushed in from the hall. ‘I heard sirens. I couldn’t find anybody.’ She stopped, pressed a hand to her lips. ‘Oh my God.’ She stumbled to a deckchair, sank down, buried her face in her hands, shuddered.
Judy Weitz and two uniformed officers walked into the room. Judy was weekend casual in a pink sweater, black slacks, and pink tennis shoes. One officer was tall, thin and gray, the other a petite strawberry blonde. A man in a wet suit and several firemen followed. Judy took a quick glance, saw Don and the body, the distraught viewers. She spoke quietly to the firemen and water rescuer and they turned and left. Her gaze took everything in, the body on the pool rim, Don in sopping clothes, the onlookers. She walked up to Don, looked at him in inquiry.
‘I got a tip something was up out on the terrace. I came over to check it out. The door was open to the terrace. Then,’ he gestured at Elise, ‘she screamed. I got here fast. But time wouldn’t have helped him. What brought you?’
‘Nine-one-one operator buzzed me when they got the emergency call, drowning man in pool. Smart of her to think homicide should check it out since the same address had a dead body last night.’
‘Reported as an accident?’
‘Right. Message garbled. Man in pool. Come quick to back terrace. We did. Two patrol cars, ambulance, fire truck.’
Don looked around the room. ‘Where’s Howie?’
Judy’s tone was bland. ‘Gone to some kind of literary festival. Gets back in town tonight.’
‘So you’re in charge?’
‘Right. And things are getting interesting. You haven’t been to the station today so you may not know. Howie doesn’t know yet either. Somebody put a note on his desk claiming the murderer entered the house through the red door on the west side of the terrace.’ She gestured. ‘Note claims there’s a witness.’
Don grinned. ‘Howie will probably accuse me of writing the note but I wasn’t there today.’
‘Yeah. Like I said, it’s getting interesting. Anyway, the ME is on the way. Techs are coming. Just in case.’
Don gave her a grin. ‘Howie will probably dock your pay.’
Her shrug was indifferent. ‘Protocol. I’ll remind him.’
‘I want to be a fly on the wall.’
A brief smile. ‘These things happen. Speaking of, you’re soaked. You want to go home, get some dry clothes?’
Don gave his shirt sleeve a squeeze. ‘I’ve got a gym bag in my trunk. Take me five minutes.’ He strode toward the door.
Judy turned to the silent gathering.
Elise Douglas, head bent, hands tightly clasped, remained in her brother’s protective embrace. Crystal Pace huddled in a webbed chair, a beach towel held against her lips. Her face no longer had the glow of healthy exercise, was paper white. Jason still clung to the high dive ladder, his face stark. Margaret Foster didn’t look competent and collected. She held tight to the string of pearls that gleamed against a navy sweater, carefully avoided looking at the body huddled on the cement.
Judy approached Elise.
Stuart gave his sister’s shoulders a squeeze.
Judy spoke quietly, ‘Ma’am, I suggest you go upstairs for now. By law the deceased cannot be moved until the medical examiner has made his investigation. When a death occurs without an attending physician, the police are required to file a report. We’ – a nod at the watching group – ‘must interview witnesses. We will proceed as quickly as possible.’
Margaret stepped forward. ‘I can go with Elise.’ Was she prompted by compassion or a desire to be removed from a grisly scene? Blood still seeped from Dwight’s broken head.
Judy nodded approval. ‘Thank you.’
Stuart gave his sister’s shoulder a final pat as Margaret took Elise’s arm. ‘Come with me, Elise. I’ll help you.’
Elise hung back for a moment, stared at Dwight’s body. ‘Dwight.’ Her deep voice was as forlorn as a loon’s cry as night falls.
Margaret gave a gentle tug. Elise sagged against her. Elise looked old and lost, walked in a stoop, Margaret’s hand gripping one arm.
No one spoke as the two women slowly crossed to the door and out into the hall. As the sound of their steps receded, everyone stared at Judy Weitz – Stuart fidgeting near the enclosure for the pool toys, Crystal hunched in her chair, the beach towel pressed against her lips, Jason clinging to the steel ladder for support.
Judy turned away and walked to the pool edge, looked down at Dwight’s body.
Don was already garbed in warmup pants and a sweatshirt. He slammed the trunk shut, tapped the cell phone in his free hand. ‘Another death here. Stay locked in … Don’t answer unless you know the caller … Keep your doors locked … It will be late … Right.’ He clicked off, tucked the phone in a pocket, moved fast. He reached the terrace, nodded to the officer at the open door, entered the pool room, joined Judy beside the body.
Footsteps sounded and three techs, two middle-aged men, one lean, one plump, the third with purple hair and dangly earrings, walked in with their equipment. Judy gave them a come-here wave as she spoke to Don. ‘The secretary is taking the widow upstairs. I’ll go up as soon as I get the techs started.’
Don looked at the body. Dwight’s head quirked to one side. A gaping wound disfigured the right side of his skull. There were no other signs of trauma. Dwight lay on his back, long arms outspread, legs apart. A big man, he looked oddly small lying on the concrete.
I understood now what happened. Dwight didn’t live long enough to take his eight fifteen selfie. He came to the pool at his regular time, a quarter to eight, walked into the big, quiet high-ceilinged room with the pool and diving board, deckchairs and a wet bar. A large container with netted sides held pool playthings, balls, boogie boards, life rings, plastic floats. Now the room seemed crowded, Judy and Don, the crime techs, the silent onlookers, and the body. Crime techs in their usual fashion worked from the perimeter toward the center, in this case from the edges of the room toward the pool, sketching, photographing, filming, measuring.
Swift steps sounded. I recognized the ME, trim, fast-moving Jacob Brandt, brown hair shaggy and a little long. He was in weekend gray sweats, a red bandana around his head instead of a sweatband. His flushed face suggested the summons reached him when he was out for a night run. He carried a black leather bag. He moved toward Judy and Don, gave them a brief wave, turned to look down at the body. ‘Took a whack.’ He lifted his head, checked out the diving platform. His eyes moved from the board back to the body, likely estimating whether a dive went wrong, very wrong, what surface had been struck to result in trauma.
I don’t know anything about diving. I’ve seen people somersault, swan dive, spring high off a board. Dwight Douglas looked tough and athletic, likely enjoyed fancy dives.
I looked around the pool area. The catch-all for playthings was behind the chair where Crystal sat, the beach towel still pressed to her mouth.
The other side of the pool, the far side from where the body lay and Judy and Don stood, was equipped for emergencies. Two rescue poles were lodged on metal supports, one above the other, perhaps a foot apart, and easily within reach. The lower pole was about five feet from the cement floor.
The last time I was here, my gaze swept over those poles. And yes, the top pole then lay straight and true on its support. The top pole now was perhaps an inch or so askew.
Jacob Brandt returned the stethoscope to his black bag, snapped it shut, popped to his feet with the grace of an athletic young man. He looked again from the body to the diving board as he walked toward the detectives. ‘Have to do the PM to be sure but I think a broken neck killed him. Major head trauma. If it was a back alley, I’d say a blackjack got him. I suppose he could have slipped from the board.’ He gestured at the diving board with his thumb. ‘Maybe he was doing a double twist and threw himself on to the edge of the pool. You can check surfaces for blood, brain tissue. Maybe he had a heart attack.’ A glance at the body. ‘Looks healthy enough but I’ll find out. Cardiac arrest could cause a violent lurch off the high dive into the side of the pool. Or—’
Crack.
The sudden unexpected sound brought instant silence. Every head jerked to look across the pool.
One end of the upper rescue pole now rested on the concrete. I easily dislodged it with a tap.
Judy and Don moved swiftly, swung around the end of the pool, passing the ladder to the high dive. They stopped a scant foot from the long thin pole, looked down, then raised their eyes to study the empty bracket.
Don’s gaze moved to the pole still aloft, then again at the top pole with one end against its bracket, the other end on the concrete. ‘Maybe somebody was in a hurry, perched the pole but didn’t get it snug in both brackets.’
At shortly after a quarter to eight, Dwight entered the pool room. His terrycloth robe lay on a chair perhaps six feet from the netted container for playthings.
I pictured him as he walked toward the end of the pool, turning, going up the ladder to the high dive. He would have had no reason to look toward the netted enclosure where someone waited with the rescue pole clutched in both hands. Dwight climbed the steps with no sense of unease. On the board perhaps he went to the end, bounced a few times, finally landed hard and flew into the air and somersaulted down into the deep end. The watcher moved fast and was ready with the pole raised. The instant Dwight reached the surface, the pole slammed down on his head. A tense moment of waiting. But Dwight would not come up from the bottom of the pool. The pole then was dipped in the water, a cloth used to polish away fingerprints. Possibly the murderer wore gloves. I felt certain the pole would yield no trace of fingerprints. In a hurry, the murderer ran around the end of the pool to return the pole to its brackets and then the swift escape from the pool room. Opening the hall door, listening, slipping out unseen.
It was as if Judy knew my thoughts. She pointed at the still water below the diving board. ‘Let’s say he does a dive, comes up. Somebody standing at the edge of the pool with the pole cracks his head open, snaps his neck.’
Don nodded. ‘A hell of a blow.’
‘Yeah.’ Judy’s blue eyes, cool now, measured the silent group watching them. ‘Think it’s time we got some statements. I’ll do the widow and the secretary. You see to the rest of them.’
‘My pleasure.’ A twisted smile. ‘I should mention Howie intends to formally censure me. I took—’
Judy interrupted. ‘I heard all about it. Big Bad Don and Murderous Fran had a fun day. We can sort all of that out later with Howie. It’s not a problem for me, Detective Smith.’ Judy gestured at a tech near the diving board. The girl with purple hair hustled over.
Judy pointed at the dangling rescue pole. ‘Handle that baby with care, Ann. I suspect it’s been in the water but look for blood under ultraviolet. It could be the weapon.’
Ann nodded energetically, purple hair quivering. ‘I’ll get some pix then wrap her up, take her to the lab.’
Judy looked across the pool where Stuart, Crystal and Jason waited. ‘I’ll go up and talk to the widow.’
Don caught the attention of the young officer in the doorway. ‘I’ll detail Russell to escort the family members to a comfortable spot to wait.’ He looked at Stuart. ‘I’ll start with bro. He isn’t soused tonight. Could easily slam a man over the head.’
Judy’s gaze swept the trio on the other side of the pool. ‘Let’s play it like an accident for now. See what we can get. Maybe at the end a quick question about the rescue pole.’
I liked her tone. As we say in Oklahoma, she was on her horse and ready to ride.