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Reggie Forsythe’s house was what you’d expect of the man. Big, bloated, and bombastic. Topiaries? Seriously? The least he could do is make them into something interesting. Or more appropriate. A weasel, maybe, or a moray eel.
Dutton had called Detective Given ahead of time to square it with him, and Given gave his blessing. He literally used those words. So it was Saint Given now. Adam knew Given was aiming for the top, but he’d thought more along the lines of Chief of the Hartford PD someday than a religious icon.
Adam flashed his badge at a police officer rolling up yellow crime scene tape across one end of the driveway. The officer let him pass through. After entering the house, Adam didn’t see any detectives, but the CSIs were hard at work.
“Well, well, Detective Dutton. What a pleasant surprise.” Forsythe’s voice dripped with the verbal equivalent of lye. “It’s nice to see Chief Quinn sent along his best.”
“Mind if I have a look around, sir?”
“But of course, Detective. Whatever it takes to catch that horrid woman.”
One of the CSI techs approached Forsythe, so Adam took the opportunity to walk through the house. Lots of old, musty-smelling books that had probably never been cracked open, lots of king-sized furniture and lots and lots of silver. Silver chandeliers, silver-and-glass end tables, silver mirrors, silver tchotchkes. The tin man looking for a heart?
He found the dining room, the red stains on the floor making it easy to pinpoint where the victim died. Adam spied a heavy candelabra sealed in a plastic bag. More red stains on that, the likely murder weapon.
He picked up the plastic bag. That thing was heavy. When the chief mentioned a candlestick, Adam pictured a smaller one-candle unit. This one had holes for five candles, was about eighteen inches tall and around three pounds. He pictured a woman like Beverly hoisting the thing high enough to bring it down with the force required to crack a skull wide open. She looked fit but not the bodybuilder type.
The tech bending over a wallboard straightened up to look at the plastic bag in Adam’s hands. He pointed at it. “My aunt has one of those. Solid silver. She uses it for candles, though, not bonking people on the head. On second thought, I better tell my uncle to watch his back.”
Crime scene humor. Adam flashed an obligatory smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. He examined the bag again. “Check for prints on this candlestick thing yet?”
“We’ll wait ’til the lab. Looks clean on first blush.”
“That would mean gloves or our killer wrapped something around this first. That makes it premeditation, not a crime of passion.” He placed the bag back on the table. “Do you think a petite woman could have used this as a murder weapon?”
The tech guy frowned. “Women are often stronger than they look. But if I’d seen it before you told me it was a woman who allegedly did this, I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Adam heard a slight cough and looked up to find Forsythe in the doorway. “If you have a moment, Detective, I want to talk to you.”
Deciding to launch a charm offensive, Adam smiled broadly. “Why yes, that would be nice. Wherever you say, sir.”
They ended up in the study with all the moldy books, and Adam pushed the tip of his tongue between his upper teeth to stifle a sneeze. “I was so sorry to hear about your father, Mr. Forsythe.”
“Yes, a terrible tragedy. His loss will be felt by many.”
“Many” didn’t include his son, judging by the slack look on the “grieving” heir’s face and the cavalier tone in his words. Adam added, “I know you suspect the mystery woman of being behind your father’s death, and we’re checking into that. But do you know of anyone else who might have wanted your father dead?”
“Certainly not. The angriest I’ve seen anyone toward Father was a fellow golfer at the Apple Valley Resort golf course when Father asked to play through.”
“You and your father are in the antiques business. Surely there are competitors, rivalries, someone who might not be his number one fan?”
Forsythe pulled a pipe out of pocket, followed by a pouch of tobacco. He slowly and deliberately added the tobacco to the pipe and struck a match to it. An aroma like singed blackberries wafted through the room. “Naturally, there are rivalries in any business. But businessmen don’t go around bashing each other over the head. It’s much less messy to simply undermine your opponent.”
“Whatever that entails?”
“Business is a harsh reality, Detective Dutton. It’s not for the faint of heart.”
“Most businessmen don’t go to work every day wondering if they’re going to get shot in the line of duty.”
Forsythe looked at Adam over his pipe. “Perhaps.”
Adam leaned back in his wingback chair, his very uncomfortable wingback chair. What was the point of having painful furniture? He surveyed the room. “You have a nice home here, Mr. Forsythe. I understand you’ve lived here for twenty years.”
Forsythe waved his pipe in the air in reply.
“Pleasant area to live. But you weren’t born here, were you, sir?”
“I was born in neighboring Riverton. But I haven’t kept in touch with my estranged mother’s side of the family. I had a sister once. I believe she and her husband died in a car crash. I never knew them.”
“Tin man” was the right description for Forsythe, all right. He was as shaken by the mention of his sister’s death as one would be shaking snow off their shoes. “What was your mother’s maiden name, Mr. Forsythe?”
“It was Gras. Why?
“Just curious. I have family around here, too, and wondered if I might have heard of her.” Not that he’d needed verification of Strickland’s story, but it was gratifying to get it, nonetheless.
“As I say, I never knew her or that side of the family. Father said she was a cold-hearted bitch who was only interested in his money.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Must have been difficult for you to grow up without a mother around.”
Forsythe laughed. “Spare me the sympathy, Detective. You and I both know you don’t care about me or my childhood. But you do seem intent on deflecting attention from our female suspect. Hiding something?”
“No sir. I promise you we’ll check all leads and suspects. Chief Quinn runs a tight ship.”
“And he should continue to do so if wants to keep Mayor Lehmann happy.”
Adam smiled again. “I understand you’re friends, sir?”
“I don’t have friends, Detective. Acquaintances, associates, employees. And I keep them all in a tight circle, cracking the whip as needed. You’d be smart to keep that in mind.”
“I have too many things on my mind right now to add one more.” Adam rose to his feet, noting the flash of irritation in Forsythe’s eyes. “I appreciate you giving me some of your valuable time, sir. We’ll keep you posted on the investigation.”
Adam made his way back through the crime scene tape to his car. Even if Beverly Laborde were a thief and a liar, he couldn’t see her as a killer. He felt himself wanting to protect her from this soul-cannibal, but holding back evidence wasn’t his style.
Stopping back by the police station, Adam headed to his computer to start checking databases but stopped when he spied a report someone had dropped on his desk. It was a preliminary autopsy report. Nothing that didn’t jibe with what he’d seen from the photos the Hartford PD had sent along. Except for one thing—needle marks on the victim’s arm?
He switched to his Hartford notes, but they didn’t mention anything about drug use or drug paraphernalia found in the house. Now that was interesting. Maybe Reggie and Beverly were both innocent, and the killer was a drug dealer. Lucky for Adam, that was in Detective Given’s jurisdiction and all the best to him.
Adam logged into his computer. Armed with the names that now filled in some of Beverly Laborde’s past, he had something to sink his teeth into, research-wise. He looked up Guinevere Gras and searched for any references to Zayette. Regarding the latter, he found the newspaper accounts of Beverly’s mother and father killed in a wreck after their car was hit head-on by a cement truck.
He rubbed his eyes at that one. When he was younger and a beat cop, how many tragic and gruesome car crashes had he helped investigate? They never got any easier for him. And notifying the shocked family members didn’t either, especially the kids. The article said the Zayettes had a daughter aged six. About the same age Adam was when he lost his mother to cancer.
Otherwise, as far as he was able to tell, Gras and the Zayettes were upstanding, hard-working, honest folk. No rap sheets, no hints of scandal. Nothing like a Beverly Laborde skeleton anywhere in their closet.
He leaned back in his chair, thinking. Now came the hard part, writing up a report. He didn’t know yet what he was going to put in and what he’d leave out. Or even if he’d leave anything out. But he honestly didn’t feel like staying here late into the evening to do it. He needed some space to think this through and would deal with the chief tomorrow.
After grabbing his jacket, he made his way to his car, opened the door, and then slammed it shut after he climbed in. As he fiddled with the buttons on his radio, he said aloud, “Beverly Laborde, why did you have to choose this town and this time—and to complicate my life?”
