Howie Harris strode in. His wispy hair might be straggly and untidy, but his gaze was direct and cold and hard. Don, tall and strong, was behind him. Don gave Fran a swift sweet smile and his dark eyes locked with hers. Judy Weitz was the last. She closed the door. In the silence, the sound of that click was freighted with finality. Judy’s rounded face was carefully devoid of expression. She didn’t look at Fran.
Fran’s chin rose. She straightened her slender shoulders, sat tall in the hard chair, but her eyes looked enormous in her still face.
Howie took the center seat behind the old wooden table. Judy Weitz placed a recorder on the table. Don came around the table, took two big steps, grabbed Fran’s hands.
Howie was curt. ‘Smith, sit down or get out.’
Fran pulled her hands away. ‘‘It’s all right.’
It wasn’t all right, but it was all they had, that reassuring touch, then Don turned away, walked to the table. He pulled out the third chair, scraping the legs against the concrete floor. He sat down and the chair creaked beneath his weight.
Judy turned on the recorder and in a monotone identified the time, the case, the circumstances.
Howie cleared his throat. He pulled a card from his pocket and loudly read the Miranda warning. A pause. ‘Tell us about your relationship with Sylvia Chandler.’
Fran spoke firmly. ‘I wish to state for your record that I, Frances Mitchell Loring, know nothing about the deaths of Sylvia Chandler and Dwight Douglas. I have not had any contact with Sylvia Chandler in more than three years. I have never had any contact whatsoever with Dwight Douglas. That is my true and complete statement. I decline to answer questions until I have consulted an attorney.’
Howie leaned back in his chair. ‘You can make your phone call. We can hold you for twenty-four hours pending an arrest. You will be escorted to a cell.’
Fran stood in the middle of the cell. There were several cells in the basement of the police station. At mid-afternoon on a Sunday, none of the other cells was occupied.
‘Fran,’ my tone was urgent. ‘You started—’
The heavy steel door at the end of the corridor had a rusty hinge that squealed as it swung in. Don Smith nodded to a jailer. ‘Ten minutes. Thanks, Jake.’ The door closed.
Don Smith swung around and looked, saw Fran.
She stood at the bars, hands gripping the steel rods.
He was there in an instant. He slipped his arms through the bars, pulled her as near as he could. ‘Megan Wynn’s on her way. I talked to her. Told her you’re innocent.’ He paused. His voice was puzzled. ‘She told me she knew you were innocent and she’d be there as soon as she dropped the baby off at her mother’s.’
‘A criminal lawyer with a baby?’
‘I don’t know how many criminal cases she handles, but she sounded smart. And hey, she said she knows you’re on the side of the angels.’
‘I don’t know about angels.’ There was an odd tone in Fran’s voice, too. ‘I think …’ And it was as if sunshine broke through heavy dark clouds, ‘Oh Don, suddenly I feel that everything’s going to be all right.’
‘Of course everything’s going to be all right.’ His voice was deep and confident.
But I could see Don’s face, his chin pressed against her golden ringlets. His face was that of a man who sees the rushing, crushing onslaught of an avalanche.
Steel rasped. The guard stepped into the corridor.
Don pulled away far enough to look down at Fran. ‘I love you. I know it’s too soon but I do. I’ll see you through. I promise.’ He broke away, started up the corridor, looked back one last time.
Fran managed a smile. ‘I’m all right.’
Don turned a hand toward her, then, with a jerk, swung away, walked to the open door.
The guard, a slight man with sparse gray hair and a stoic face, stood aside.
Don stepped through the doorway, stopped to look back.
The older man gave a curious glance at the only occupied cell as he pulled the heavy door. Don moved into the hall.
The steel door slammed shut.
The harsh lights in the corridor slanted into the empty cells and threw the shadows of the bars across the concrete floor where Fran stood.
‘Fran.’ I spoke softly.
‘Can the lawyer get me out of here?’ There was a tiny quiver of panic in her voice. She’d kept her composure with Don, but now she was alone in the silence and the musty air.
‘She’ll be here soon.’ I didn’t answer directly. I was afraid there might be too much circumstantial evidence for Megan Wynn to get Fran released. But hope is better than fear. ‘Right now I need your help. You heard a sound behind the whisper.’
‘The whisper and every so often a sound.’ Fran shivered. ‘I can’t be definite. I only heard it a few times. Maybe three. Faint. Erratic. Just a little sound. A’ – she paused – ‘little sound. That’s as near as I can get.’
Detective Loy Appeared in the cramped vestibule of the women’s restroom. The mirror would have looked at home in a Boris Karloff castle and likely had last been Windexed a decade ago. I smoothed down several red curls.
Don Smith was pacing in a waiting area at the entrance to the station.
‘Detective Smith.’ As he turned, I spoke briskly, ‘Detective Weitz suggested I ask your help. I’m Special Agent Loy.’ I spoke quickly to forestall any awkward questions about OSBI and my assignment. ‘I need a recorder to use at the Chandler house. Can you provide a recorder?’
Don nodded. ‘I’ll get one.’ He wheeled away, strode down a corridor, turned out of my sight. He returned in less than two minutes, the small plastic recorder in his right hand.
I slipped the recorder into a rather dull but large leather shoulder bag. ‘I’ve spoken with Mrs Loring.’
He watched me intently.
‘There may be a way of identifying who called her on Dwight Douglas’s cell phone.’
Hope flared in his watching eyes.
‘Will you come with me to the Chandler house?’
The Corvette slid to a stop in the Chandler circular drive. Don followed me up the steps. I rang. Stuart Chandler opened the door. I took the lead. ‘We have a few questions, Mr Chandler.’ I moved forward.
True to his upbringing, Stuart retreated, holding the door for us to enter.
I was pleasant. ‘Here’s what we’d like to do …’
The door to Elise’s suite was open, but I paused on the threshold. ‘Mrs Douglas, may we have a few minutes of your time?’ I carried the recorder in my right hand, unobtrusively turned it on.
She sat on the plaid sofa, gestured for us to enter. ‘Have you arrested her?’
The black bird in the cage near the bedroom door gave a sharp caw.
Don replied. ‘Mrs Loring is in custody.’
Elise gave a huge sigh. ‘Then it’s done.’ She brushed a tangle of black curls from the side of her surgically planed face. The bird gave a sharp cry. She looked up. ‘It’s all right, Sebastian.’ She seemed to dismiss us from her thoughts.
I glanced at Don, gave a tiny nod toward the chairs opposite her. He and I sat down. I placed the recorder on my lap.
She looked at me incuriously, then spoke in a rapid monotone. ‘I’m going home tomorrow.’
Don was courteous. ‘Thank you for granting us a few moments. Mrs Douglas,’ the bird cawed three times in succession, ‘what time did you last see your husband?’
‘A little before a quarter to eight. He always went down to the pool about that time.’ Tears brimmed, slid down her tight cheeks. He said, ‘This is going to be fun.’ She lifted a hand, brushed away the moisture. ‘I said,’ a pause, a breath, ‘I said, ‘Dwight, don’t leave me. I don’t want you to leave me. I’m frightened. Sebastian flapped his wings. He does that sometimes when he wants attention. Dwight pointed at him, said he’d keep me company. Dwight laughed and walked away and then he was gone.’
The bird cawed.
Crystal stood in the hallway outside her suite. As we walked up, she put her hands on her hips. ‘You’re back and Stuart said Jason had to go back downstairs because of you. I don’t like being alone in this house.’
‘You’re quite safe, Mrs Pace.’ I gestured toward the open door. ‘We came to reassure you. Let’s go inside and we’ll explain.’
She whirled and walked into the little living area, dropped on to a chair opposite the sofa. The room was cold, the door to a balcony ajar, the bedroom door ajar. I suspected Crystal Pace always wanted to be out and doing, not cooped up.
I looked at Don, nodded at the sofa. As he joined me, he turned on the recorder.
‘Mrs Pace …’ The clear notes from a wind chime sounded through the open balcony door and I made an instant decision. ‘The acting chief of police will be here at seven p.m. tonight to report on the status of the investigation.’
Don turned to look at me, his face a mixture of shock, mystification and alertness.
The wind chimes sang.
In the hall, I walked briskly back toward Elise’s suite.
Don tugged at my elbow. ‘So who says?’
‘I do.’ I knocked softly on her door.
The door swung in far enough to reveal her too-smooth face with haunted eyes and black silk blouse and slacks.
‘We’ve just been informed,’ I spoke quickly, ‘the acting chief of police will be here at seven tonight to report on the status of the investigation.’
‘I’ll come.’ Her tone was harsh. The door shut.
As we reached the first floor, Don looked at me curiously. ‘Just been informed? Smoke signals, tom toms, ESP?’
‘I have a hunch.’ I’ve long known that telling a man you have a feeling is wasted effort, but men relate to hunches. ‘I’ve asked Mrs Loring to remember the call from Dwight’s cell phone. I may be out on a limb,’ I would be out on a limb and tumbling to an ignominious fall if my gamble didn’t pay off, ‘but there are two facts. The murderer called her because only the murderer could have his phone. The murderer would only make that call in a safe place. We’re going to those safe places now. And we’re going to listen.’ I pointed at the recorder. ‘And tape any sounds.’
Don gave a low whistle, with a touch of sheesh-you’re-nuts incredulity. ‘Lady, if you pull this off, you’ve got my vote.’
‘Vote for what?’ We were at the door to Stuart’s manly retreat.
‘Chutzpah Queen.’
I rather liked that appellation, but quickly suppressed my pleasure. Wiggins would not be amused.
I knocked and Stuart opened the door. He held several darts in his left hand. A target hung on the wall next to the stag’s antlers. Two darts were near the center.
I gestured. ‘What a pleasure to see a target. I would love to watch you throw.’
‘I’ve had a lot of practice ever since Dwight started that selfie thing.’ He gave a little shrug and faced the target.
Don clicked on the recorder.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Stuart retrieved the darts, moved back, Thump.
‘Did you see Dwight when you came down here to take your selfie?’
Stuart was poised to throw. A hesitation. The dart wobbled in its flight, skittered off the target to the floor. ‘That one’s a little off balance.’ He threw again, hit the bull’s eye. ‘Dwight and I walked down the hall together. He was still heading for the pool room when I stepped in here, shut the door. The last time I saw him.’
Don looked interested. ‘How did he appear?’
Stuart rubbed the side of his face. ‘Fine. Best of spirits. He loved to dive.’
I took a step nearer. ‘Did you see anyone else in the hall?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks for your help.’ Don went into the hall. I said without inflection. ‘The acting chief will be here at seven tonight to report on the investigation.’
I didn’t bother to knock at the game room. I turned the knob and we walked in.
Jason was intent at the big pinball machine, lights flashing. His right hand worked the lever. Flip. Flip. Flip.
Don turned on the recorder.
Flip. Flip Flip. The sound was quick, erratic. No pattern.
‘We won’t interrupt your game, Mr Pace. Please keep on playing.’ I stood beside the machine.
‘OK. What’s up?’ He paused, gave me a quick look. ‘No more bodies?’
‘Just a few questions. Please keep playing. Did you see Dwight after dinner?’
He gazed at the machine. Flip. Flip. ‘Nope. Oh, I saw him head down the stairs so I hung back a little. I was getting damn tired of all the eight fifteen stuff. But Crystal and I don’t pick fights.’ Flip. Flip. Flip. ‘Hey.’ The ball caromed and lights blazed. ‘Got that one.’ He let his hand drop, stood straighter.
‘That’s all we needed.’ I nodded at Don and he started for the door. I looked back from the threshold. ‘Please be downstairs at seven tonight. The acting police chief will be here to report on the investigation.’
‘Good to know,’ he called after us. ‘Crystal and I are out of here tomorrow.’ He looked almost buoyant
‘After dinner?’ Margaret Foster picked up the pencil, rolled it in her fingers, held it between thumb and forefinger, tapped the desktop. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I pointed at the door. ‘Perhaps you saw him in the hall.’
‘No.’ A slight frown. ‘I thought I heard voices,’ several taps, ‘but I’m not sure. I keep my window ajar usually. A squirrel was making his evening commentary, likely complaining that someone put a metal cover over the bird feeder.’
I kept on point. ‘Did you speak with Dwight?’
Now she was definite. ‘I spoke to no one after dinner. I was here’ – Tap. Tap. – ‘until Elise screamed.’ A shaken look. ‘That scream …’
I leaned forward. ‘Mrs Foster, you’ve been associated with the Chandler family for many years. Who do you suspect?’
She was jolted. ‘Oh no. No.’
I stood. ‘Tonight at seven’ – Don rose, turned toward the door, carrying the recorder – ‘the acting chief will address the family.’
The Corvette pulled up in front of City Hall, which housed the police department.
Don’s hands were clenched on the steering wheel. ‘No warning? No prep?’ The question bristled with outrage.
‘I know what I’m doing.’ I dearly hoped I did. Oh yes, I hoped so.
Don’s hard voice was loud, furious. ‘Roust her out of a cell, haul her to that damn house? If they put handcuffs on her—’
‘No handcuffs.’
‘Just how the hell do you think you can tell Howie Harris what to do?’
‘On a wing and a prayer,’ I murmured.
Don’s expression was blank. Those long-ago words from World War II meant nothing to him; didn’t evoke a flak-weakened, mangled wing and a bomber gliding just long enough to make it back over the Channel to England.
I opened the door. ‘Bring Travis and Jennifer Roberts.’
‘So I show up on their doorstep and say pretty please come with me?’
‘They will come. Tell them Detective Loy expects them.’
Judy’s Weitz’s right hand hovered over the donuts in a lopsided box on the break-room table. ‘Chocolate custard. Howie’s favorite.’ She chose two, slid them on to a paper plate. ‘And Mountain Dew.’
To each his own. But if this combo pleased Howie, I would present it as if nectar to the gods.
Judy looked inquiring. ‘What would you like?’
‘Coffee. Is there any real milk?’
She laughed. ‘Not in this cop shop. Creamers.’
‘Black, then.’ I picked up the tray.
As I reached the door, she said softly, ‘Safe landing.’
I knew she’d talked to Don.
I took a deep breath outside Howie Harris’s temporary office, donned a smile. I knocked on the partially open door and the panel swung in.