I was on the front porch ringing the bell, Detective Loy in her sensible suit, when a patrol car pulled up in the drive. The young blonde officer who’d brought the laptop with the footage of Fran yesterday – oh yes, her name was Bledsoe – stepped out of the car. I gave her a wave.
She looked a little surprised but climbed the steps, blonde ponytail swinging, and stood beside me.
‘Officer Bledsoe, good to see you. I’m Detective Loy from OSBI. I’m lending a hand in the investigation.’ I looked inquisitive.
Officer Bledsoe said quickly, eager to show the Adelaide police were on their toes, ‘I’m organizing a search for the missing cell phone.’ She turned and waved at an SUV. ‘Here’s my team.’ The big vehicle disgorged four officers, one dumpy, one pencil thin, one Gene Kelly lithe, and one very likely a former basketball player.
I nodded approvingly. ‘I’ll inform the family so you can get right to work.’
As the searchers disappeared around the corner of the house, I wondered if they’d been dispatched by Judy Weitz. If Howie Harris was worried about overtime, he wouldn’t be happy.
I put my finger on the bell.
Stuart Chandler opened the door, stepped back for me to enter.
I was soft-spoken. ‘I saw the hearse. I’m sorry about your father.’
‘Thank you.’ Stuart held the door open for me.
I stepped inside. ‘There are still some questions about last night.’
He looked at me somberly. ‘Was my brother-in-law murdered?’
‘The evidence suggests so. The autopsy report hasn’t been received.’
‘Dwight was a champion diver. On a college team. There’s no way he could have made that kind of mistake in a dive.’ His voice was heavy.
‘Why do you think he was killed?’
There was a flicker of shock in his eyes. ‘Why?’
I waited. The water splashed softly in the entrance-hall fountain. Otherwise there was not a breath of sound. I watched Stuart think. He’d decided Dwight’s death could not be accidental. He hadn’t faced the implications.
‘Dwight bullied people.’ He spoke with regret.
‘Is that how you saw his selfie game?’
‘Now I do. I only thought he was having a macabre joke for a while. But now … He saw someone in the hall that night, didn’t he?’ Lips pressed together, then as if speaking to himself. ‘If he saw someone in the hall … If he was coming out of the pool and someone killed Sylvia and came inside from the terrace …’ A little lurch of breath as if he struggled for air.
I didn’t have to list the possibilities. Elise, Crystal, Jason, Margaret. Himself.
He said quickly, ‘Last night. With Dwight. The door was open to the terrace.’
I gave him a steady look. ‘Of course.’
‘Oh damn, damn, damn.’ Stuart wheeled away, headed for the stairs. He took the steps two at a time, pounded to the balcony, was out of sight.
Elise remained in the wing chair, Dwight’s picture in her hands. She didn’t look up as I approached.
I spoke gently. ‘Mrs Douglas.’
Dark eyes locked with mine. ‘She killed my husband.’
I caught my breath. ‘She?’
‘That woman, the one on the terrace. They showed us her picture. Why haven’t you arrested her? Why did you let her kill my husband?’
I chose my words carefully. ‘If you are referring to Mrs Loring, she arrived on the terrace after Mrs Chandler was killed.’
Elise carefully placed the photograph on a side table, pushed up, stood inches from me. ‘Did you see her face? And the door was open last night, too.’
‘Yes.’ I spoke as one might to a survivor of horror. ‘You are correct to believe Sylvia’s murderer re-entered the house from the terrace. But according to one witness, the murderer had come and gone before Mrs Loring climbed the hill to the terrace. The witness can testify that the murderer re-entered the house through the red door at eight fifteen. Mrs Loring was captured on the security camera at eight twenty-two.’
She gripped my arm, her long nails sharp against my skin. ‘I don’t believe that witness. I saw her face on the security tape.’
Hatred for Fran made her mask-like face even harder. ‘She killed Dwight.’ A rasp.
Elise dismissed any possibility the murderer might live in the house. Was she protecting herself? Or someone close to her?
As Mama always told us kids, ‘Beating your head against a stone wall doesn’t hurt the wall.’
‘Your husband went down to the pool last night for a purpose.’
Coal-black eyes stared at me.
‘Why did Dwight make a game of selfies at eight fifteen?’
She loosed her grip, sank back into the chair. ‘I warned him.’ She lifted a haunted face. ‘You told us that door closed at eight fifteen. You told everyone. I asked Dwight. I said were you looking out in the hall then? Maybe he saw that antique woman. Maybe there was something she wanted to get in the house. I asked him and he laughed. But I know that laugh. His gotcha laugh. Maybe he called her, said he knew what she did to Sylvia and asked why she came inside and told her maybe she’d like to come back and take a picture like he was having everyone here do.’ Elise struggled to make her accusation of Fran real. In her heart did she know that it wasn’t Fran who came into the house the night Sylvia was killed?
Elise pressed a hand against her head. ‘Dwight laughed. His gonna-see-you-crawl laugh. He saw that woman. I know he did. He didn’t care about Sylvia. He didn’t care about the police. He thought he’d have fun, show somebody they weren’t as smart as they thought. I told him somebody killed Sylvia. You can’t fool with someone like that.’
As Mama always told us kids, ‘If you poke a tiger, don’t turn your back.’
Dwight poked a tiger and the tiger poked back.
Crystal and Jason’s suite was empty. I found them downstairs. The pinball room blazed with light. Jason bent close to the machine, his right hand flipping, flipping, lights flashing, the silver ball caroming here and there, Jason shooting, ‘Yeah Yeah Yeah.’
Crystal looked small in an oversized chair, small and wizened and frightened.
I Appeared in the empty hallway. Likely Margaret was in her office. Stuart might be at his father’s desk in the other wing. He’d looked abstracted earlier, a million things on his mind. I knocked briskly on the game-room door, turned the knob, walked in.
Crystal clutched at the throat of her pale rose warmups. She was on her feet while Jason still hunched at the pinball machine. Flip, flip, flip. She came toward me, a trembling hand outstretched. ‘Do you know?’ The words were scarcely audible.
‘Know?’
‘Who killed Dwight.’
Jason sent a ball to one side and it trickled away. He turned, blurted, ‘He twisted wrong off the board. The damn show-off got up there and played king of the mountain and it finally got him. He slipped when he bounced and came down and cracked his head. For God’s sake, Crystal, nobody killed him.’ He skidded to a stop beside her.
‘Oh Jason. You always think everything’s all right. Like when Mr Baker got you to invest in that mining company. You don’t see things.’ She didn’t sound like a super-confident socialite. She sounded old and sad. And frightened. Her gaze met mine. ‘Someone took that pole, the one that fell down, and hit Dwight when he came up from a dive. That’s what happened, didn’t it?’
I was firm. ‘Yes.’
Crystal spoke the names. ‘Elise. Stuart. Me. Jason. Margaret.’
Jason grabbed her arm. ‘The door to the terrace was open.’
Slowly Crystal shook her head.
‘I heard my name.’ Margaret was in the doorway, a quizzical look on her face.
There was an instant of silence. Crystal tensed. Jason stared at the floor.
I said blandly, ‘I am speaking briefly with everyone this morning.’
Margaret spoke sharply, ‘I hope you’re making progress.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Crystal, I have some ideas for the memorial for your father. I’ll talk to you later.’ She turned away, closed the door behind her.
Crystal was forlorn. ‘Do you think she heard me?’
‘So what if she did? She knows everybody’s upset. Come on, Crystal, let’s go upstairs, start packing. I’m taking you home.’
Margaret sat beside me on a small sofa opposite her desk, looked thoughtful, finally shook her head decisively. ‘You have to understand that Dwight had an odd sense of humor. That’s all it was. Eight fifteen didn’t matter. He just seized on it as something fun to do, everybody take a picture of where they were. I don’t think anyone minded. It was a … I don’t know … a distraction. A game.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘This is a wild guess on my part, but I think Dwight reached out to that woman … I can’t think of her name. She owns the antique store. She was photographed on the terrace. She had no business to be on the terrace at night. She must have come to meet with Sylvia. We don’t know what might have gone on between them. Sylvia was a sharp businesswoman. Maybe she put something on consignment at the shop and they had a disagreement. There will turn out to be something there. Dwight was really interested when he saw the security footage. Maybe he decided to give her a call. It would be just like him. Dwight loved confrontation. Maybe he called her, claimed he knew what happened in the library. It will turn out to be something like that.’ Her gaze was demanding. ‘I would think the police would have a lot of questions for her. Not for us.’
Fran’s kitchen told the tale. A partially cooked frittata was congealed in a skillet pulled from the burner, abandoned on the middle of the stove top. Two mugs half filled with coffee sat by unused plates on the small white wooden table.
Muff twined around one ankle. I bent, stroked her silky black fur. A plaintive mew.
It took a moment to find her food in a plastic container in an alcove. I poured a scoop of pellets into a bowl, refreshed her water bowl. As Stuart Chandler had said, ‘Damn Damn. Damn.’ I’d counted on Howie Harris waiting until Monday to dredge up a motive for Fran. I counted on her being safe from arrest until then. The kitchen in disarray told me I was wrong.
‘Back off or I’ll arrest you too.’ Howie glared up at Don Smith.
Don loomed over the smaller man. ‘She’s innocent.’ The words shot like rocks from a volcano.
Howie pressed his lips together, turned and walked to his desk in the temporary office. He sat down.
Don remained in the doorway, big, strong, determined.
Howie slowly shook his head. His face reformed in dismay, regret. He spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry you got mixed up with her.’ He leaned forward, ‘Look, man, we’ve got her. She was on the terrace Friday night—’
‘At eight twenty-two. The murderer re-entered the house at eight fifteen. There’s a witness.’
Howie picked up a pen, pulled a legal pad closer. ‘Who?’
‘The artist. The one who pretended to find her body when he arrived later with a painting. Travis Roberts.’
Howie wrote the name. ‘Who interviewed him?’
‘Detective Loy.’
‘Oh yeah, that agent from OSBI.’ Howie sounded matter-of-fact. I blessed tactful Sam. Despite the tense moment, I enjoyed a quick smile. The agent dispatched by, according to Sam, Higher Powers. Howie turned to his computer, clicked, read, turned back to Don. ‘Listen man, there’s not a damn thing there that makes any difference. For starters, first the artist said he didn’t go inside the library, now he claims he did. And so the artist says he heard a door shut. So what? Maybe somebody stepped out for a breath of air, stepped back inside. As for the knobs without fingerprints, maybe somebody had sticky hands, just eaten a caramel, dropped it, picked it up. Hell man, your hands are sticky, you touch something, maybe it was a neat freak, got to wipe the knobs. That doesn’t prove anything. Maybe the knobs were wiped the next day. Who knows? Who cares?’ Howie pushed back his chair, stood. ‘I’ll tell you what proves something. It’s the fact that her cell phone got a call from Dwight Douglas on the night somebody cracked his head. And we got his cell. The search party found it. I’ll tell you what happened. She cracks Douglas’s skull, found his cell, ran outside, called herself, kept the call going long enough for those scary whispers, then called nine-one-one and threw the phone over the side of the steps as she got away. Sure, she spins a tale that she’s home alone and gets a call and a whispery voice says she has to come to the terrace. Then she calls you, let’s you get up there to find the body. As for you, go have a drink. Have a bunch. She’s played you for a fool. Now she’s here and she knows we’ve got her cornered. We’ll give her a little time to herself, maybe another half-hour in the interrogation room, and we’ll see what she has to say.’
Fran sat on a hard wooden straight chair not far from a dingy beige wall. All the walls were dingy. She faced a Formica-topped table with three chairs. The table was scarred from old cigarette burns which indicated its age, a table that had been in the police station for thirty or forty years provided a surface on which inquisitors could place coffee mugs or tall cups of icy Coke while the prisoner’s throat dried and a parched tongue felt thick against teeth. A stark fluorescent fixture in the ceiling above her bathed her in an unremitting glare. The cold still room had an odd smell, maybe perspiration, maybe desperation; a room that wasn’t aired, a room that embraced anger and fear and despair. She sat on the chair, her hands tightly clasped. Her golden ringlets were carefully brushed and teased, no doubt her wish to be pretty for Don. Her face wasn’t pretty now. Her face was empty and hopeless and frightened.
I moved close, whispered. ‘Refuse to answer questions. You have the right to one phone call. Call Megan Wynn, attorney-at-law. Tell her Bailey Ruth asked you to contact her.’
She reached out a seeking hand.
I took her hand in both of mine, held tight for an instant, then loosed my grasp.
She managed a wan smile.
I was desperately afraid for Fran. Howie Harris brushed aside the possibility Travis heard the murderer re-enter the house through the red door on Friday night. Howie pointed to the footage from the security tape and the call from Dwight’s cell phone to Fran last night.
I felt as though I teetered on the edge of a chasm and Fran and I would plummet down, but that was the last thing I wanted her to know. I spoke in an everyday voice. ‘I fed Muff. I’ll make sure she’s all right. They’ll be here in a few minutes. Tell me again about that phone call.’
I listened intently. Whispers. A threat. The order to come to the terrace. Detective Loy could point out to Howie Harris that the most important fact about Dwight Douglas’s cell phone was not the call to Fran. What mattered was the fact that Douglas did not take a selfie at eight fifteen. But that argument would seem ephemeral to Howie. I knew Dwight died because he dared to taunt a murderer with the fact that he was leaving the pool at eight fifteen on Friday night and opened the door and saw someone walking swiftly up the hall. Saw a murderer walk swiftly up the hall.
Last night, the murderer took Dwight’s cell phone and checked to be sure there was no selfie. And then? The plan, likely a pleasing plan, to try and entice Fran to the site, calling on Dwight’s cell. The murderer was keenly aware of time. There was the selfie to be made on his or her cell phone purporting to show the location on Friday night. That required a return to the site for the selfie, taking the selfie at eight fifteen, then making the whispery call and the nine-one-one call. And then easing down the hall and opening the door to the terrace and hurrying to the steps and going down a bit to fling Dwight’s cell phone away, confident it would be found in a search the next day. The net would close tight around Fran because the phone was found outside.
I pictured the murderer finally returning to the selfie spot, sinking on to a chair or sofa, breathing fast, palms sweaty, listening for the sound of sirens.
I thought of them all in their selfie spots, Elise and Crystal upstairs in their suites. Jason in the pinball room. Stuart in the dart room, Margaret in her office.
‘Fran, imagine you are hearing that whisper. Put your mind back. Listen. What do you hear? I want anything, everything, every slightest sound.’
‘The call …’ She cupped her hands over her ears. Her face tensed. Her eyes squeezed shut. A long moment and her eyes opened and her hands fell to her lap. ‘The whisper was breathy, high, the words hissing. The whisper … Something … yes … a funny little sound. A little sound.’
‘High?’
She shook her head.
‘Tinny?’
Another head shake.
‘A pattern?’
She squeezed her eyes shut again. ‘No pattern. Just every so often a little sound.’
‘Hollow?’
Her eyes stared at the wall. ‘Hollow? No. Maybe—’
The door swung in.