A Will To Murder (24 page)

“I do!  I do!” Arthur yelped excitedly.  But when O’Roarke opened the door to the back seat, Richie rammed Arthur aside and dived in, dragging a squalling Briarly after him.  Quickly, Arthur climbed into the front passenger seat, exactly as he'd planned.  A slow reappraisal of the situation began to show on Richie’s face through the tough plastic barrier, and scrunched misery blossomed on Briarly’s.  Arthur thought he might enjoy this ride into Chichiteaux.

In the squad car with Armagnac and Mrs. Marshpool, Sheila was saying, “Was it because of the flowerbed?”        

“That seems unlikely,” Armagnac replied carefully, knowing the cop in the front seat was listening.

“If it had been,” the housekeeper said, “why didn't he go after Willowby as well?”

Sheila glanced down at her hands, still mucky from dough.  “I thought I heard the side hallway door open, just a moment before the shot,” the cook said.  “Then I heard noise from the summer room.  When I came out of the kitchen after the shot, some fresh flowers were lying on the table.  Heydrick must have just brought them in.”

Boyle waved his hand at the cook, indicating she should say no more.

There was so little room in the back of the police car transporting Eric and Bradley that they practically had to sit with their knees folded against their chests.  “I'm not looking forward to this,” said Maxwell glumly. “My fingerprints are all over James' room.”

“Ha!  So you did snoop.”

“Oh, be quiet.”

Willowby was riding with Bert and Rose.  “I can't believe it's Heydrick,” the chauffeur was saying. “He's pretty harsh, I know, but--Mr. and Ms. Boyle, and Colette too?”

Bert and Rose traded looks, but did not reply.  

At the sheriff’s, everyone was ordered to stay in town while a pair of evidence teams explored the house.  Boyle protested against having to stay in a hotel, but Escott replied it wasn't the cops' fault Rollingwood was so big.  Even with two teams, the processing would be slow.  James and Katherine were to be exhumed and autopsied again by the state medical examiner.

O’Roarke escorted Arthur to a chair and asked the boy plenty of questions, telling him to talk into a tape recorder.  The officer especially wanted to hear about the CD case, the scythe, and the handfork.  Arthur was amazed that the policeman knew about them.

The statement went well, and the boy was proud of himself for handling everything in such an adult manner, when O’Roarke led him to the lab to take Arthur's fingerprints.  There, Arthur became apprehensive again.  He became even more fearful when he saw Briarly and Richie.  A cop named Officer Kirby was rolling Briarly's fingers on a sheet of paper, and Richie was cowering.

“I didn't do it!” Briarly shrieked.  She was crying and shaking her head ‘no’.  Arthur felt a sick dread.  It had not occurred to him that even the little kids might be suspects.  

Kirby smiled at the girl, trying to shut her up.  “We know you didn't do anything bad,” he said soothingly, “we're just taking prints so we can find out whose are whose when we're checking the house.  We're just trying to sort the good guys from the bad guys.”

Briarly only continued to sob.  Nonplussed, Kirby said to Richie, “Hey, do you think you can calm your sister down?”

Richie made a fist, protruded the knuckle of his middle finger, and slammed his sister hard in the arm with it.  “Shut up, Prickerbush, or I'll kill you.”

This was not what the cop had in mind, but it worked.  Briarly stopped shrieking and rubbed her arm, whimpering.  Then it was Richie's turn to be printed.  The boy’s satisfaction faded.

O’Roarke was talking to the other cop, a conversation Arthur ignored, until he heard the words ‘Arby's,’ ‘Rockland,’ and ‘parking lot.’

“You wouldn’t believe what happened in Rockland on Monday,” O’Roarke was saying, “I was on break, and had taken my patrol car to the Arby's for a sandwich, and when I came out there was a long scrape down the side of my patrol car.  It went from the front quarter panel, across both doors on the driver's side, and down to the back wheel well.  I couldn't believe it.  Some scumbag deliberately scratched my patrol car.”

Kirby made commiserating noises.  Richie's blackened fingers were being pressed into the little boxes.

“When I catch the little--” O’Roarke paused, “--who did it, God help him.”

Arthur studied the vengeful expression on the cop's face, then the back of Richie's neck.  Then he wondered if he should tell.

Richie was gloating, remembering the patrol car he'd scratched.  Then he remembered Arthur was standing right behind him.  Richie's head whipped around and he stared Death at Arthur.

Arthur decided to stay quiet.

Now Arthur had to face the ink pad himself, and his throat was tight.  Kirby tried another big smile.  Then he took the boy’s fingers one at a time and printed them.  Afterwards, O’Roarke led Arthur to an elevator.  As they waited for it to arrive, two men joined them.  

“Are you ready for Douthit's?  The body has just been delivered there.”

The man who asked this was a policeman.  His companion was wearing a lab coat and carrying a bag.  “It's a shame Chichiteaux County doesn't have a better place to perform an autopsy than Douthit’s Funeral Parlor,” replied the second man.

The elevator arrived, and the quartet stepped inside.  “I’d better warn you.  Douthit's pretty strange,” said the first speaker.

“I know,” the other man replied.  He was wearing a name tag that read, ‘Dr. Herman Poole--State Medical Examiner’ on it.  “I've met him at conferences.  He ought to be retired immediately as coroner, by shotgun if necessary.  Hopefully your guys have kept him from ‘neatening up the body' like he did in the Bergstad murder.  Dr. Lund, who was my predecessor and who had to re-autopsy Bergstad, still talks about Douthit with amazement.  Thankfully, you rarely have a murder in this county.  Are you prepared, by the way?  This may not be pleasant.”

“I suppose.  I just hope it’s not a squishy.  I hate stuffing vasoline up my nose.  Do you know how long he’s been dead?”

“Ahem.  We have a relative here,” said O’Roarke.

“Oh!  Sorry,” blurted the other cop.    

Arthur was puzzled by the whole conversation.  In the front lobby, O’Roarke left him to wait with Richie and Briarly in some plastic chairs.  “Where’s my Mom and Dad?” Arthur asked the desk cop worriedly.  This was a man named Officer Norton.  

“They’re still giving statements to the detectives.  They’ll be out in a while.  Have a seat with your cousins.”  The row of chairs had their backs to Norton, which Arthur thought was odd.    

Briarly’s eyes were red.  Embarrassed, Arthur inspected the lobby.  In front of them were some gumball and vending machines, and some bathrooms.  Next to a staircase was a ‘Stop Authorized Personnel Only’ sign and a ‘Jail’ sign.  The boy swallowed hard at the latter.  

Norton glanced up from his fishing magazine and saw Richie’s hand stuffed down the ‘Pay Parking Tickets Here’ slot.  The cop reached around the desk and jerked the boy’s arm out.  Glaring, Norton pointed him towards the seats, and Richie retreated with a smart-alec grin.  From time to time the boy called out impudent questions at Norton, who ignored him as much as possible.

Arthur wandered around, mostly to avoid his cousins.  The sheriff’s door was open, and just inside was the sheriff’s badge collection in a display case.  He studied this awhile.  The sheriff was out, and Arthur inspected the marijuana leaf displayed under the plastic blotter on the sheriff’s desk.  With the unselfconsciousness of a child, he even sat in the sheriff's chair for a few minutes, but this palled and the boy left.

In a while, Bert finished his statement and came out.  Arthur felt much better at the sight of his father, and they sat in the plastic chairs to wait for Rose.  Bert was silent with his son and short with Richie.

When Rose emerged, she gave her husband a frazzled look, and the Cummingses left for their motel.  Arthur was startled to see her fingers were inky, too.  “We’re not going back to the house,” said Bert, “it’s too damn dangerous.  We’ll just stop by during the day for news, but that’s it.  Now, who the hell shot Lance?  Willowby may think it was Heydrick, but I wonder.”

“For a bunch of guys who are always snooping around inside peoples' houses,” Eric complained, “those cops weren't very sympathetic about my fingerprints.  Thank God Wendy can vouch for me or I'd be the chief suspect.  Damn it all,” he added as he contemplated the beds at the Chichiteaux Motor Inn.  “I can't believe I'm involved in a murder case.  I can't believe I’ve been given a gunshot residue test.  
You
got me into this.”

“It wasn't my fault,” Bradley replied, watching his cats explore the room.  “I didn't know a murderer was around.  Hey, these mattresses are sagging.  Go complain to the management.”

“Do it yourself,” his friend retorted.

The two had just finished smuggling the cats into the room with a deviousness worthy of drugs, since the motel did not allow pets.

“What a cheap place this is.  They don't even have cable.”

“Remember who's paying for the room,” said Eric tartly.

“Well, I don't have any money.”

“I don't either,” Maxwell retorted.

“You could at least afford to buy me a Dr. Pepper.  I need it to calm my nerves.”

“Don't you have a dollar?”

“No.  I haven’t been able to cash my inheritance check yet.”

“God,” Eric groaned.  “I'll guess I'll get the soda.  Remember to keep those cats out of the sight of the cleaning people.”

“Ice!” Bradley called out, waving the plastic bucket.  Irritated, Eric snatched it from him and left.  When he returned with the ice and drinks, he exclaimed, “Wendy!  I'd forgotten to call her.  How do you dial out of here?”  He sat on the bed to read the telephone instructions.

“Why do you need to call her?”

His friend only waved a hand for silence.  He had dialed Wendy's work number.  

“Yeah, she's here,” a male voice on the line said.  “But she's too busy to talk.  Leave a message on her voice mail.”

“But I've--”

The man hung up.

“Damn it all!”

“Your language is really something to listen to.”

“If you can't swear about a murder, you can't swear about anything.  Be quiet for a moment.  I’m getting her voice mail.”  Maxwell recited into the phone a brief sketch of Lance's shooting, Heydrick's arrest, and Phil's disappearance, and left the number of their motel room.  He added that they thought they’d found a puddle of dried ostrich blood on the floor of the barn.  When he finished, Bradley asked, “Why does she need to know all that?”

Eric blinked at him.  “Didn't I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I could have sworn I'd told you.  Wendy’s the assistant district attorney for Linzy Fowler.”

“Assistant D.A.!  Do you mean you’ve been spying on my family for her?”

Eric blinked again.  “I suppose.  She's been recording all my phone calls.”

“And you know about it?!”

“Of course.  I gave her permission to.”

“Well, damn it all.”  Smith cracked open his soda and filled his plastic cup, frowning.  “There's something I don't understand.  If you’ve been relaying information to her, why hasn't her boss, this Linzy Fowler, made any arrests by now?”

“I don't know.  I'll have to ask.”

Bradley took a drink.  “So.  Who did it?”

His friend exhaled deeply.  “When I heard about James' death, I thought, there's only one guy who could have done it readily.  The chauffeur.  Willowby worked on the Mercedes-Knight, lived in the carriage house, and he was with James when the old man died, meaning he could have easily activated that CD player with the remote at the correct time.  But when Lance was shot, I heard the noise and turned around, and there was Willowby working on his Jeep.  His head jerked upwards at the report.  He wasn’t even in the house.  Did you see him, too?”

“Yeah,” the other replied flatly.  Smith sounded discouraged.

“So,” Eric continued, “he didn’t kill Lance.  This weakens the theory that he killed James, assuming the murderer is the same person.  You could have two different people here, one who did the CD player and one who shot Lance, but that seems unlikely.  Maybe the police are right and Heydrick did it.  I have a hard time believing it could be Phil, but--”

“But,” Smith continued,  “he ran away.”

“Yeah.  That's an admission he knows something about Lance's death.”

Bradley lay back against the pillows and sipped his soda.  “What would be Phil’s motive to kill Lance?  What would be Heydrick’s?  At least we know Heydrick didn't like my grandfather.”

“Okay!” Maxwell shouted at the ceiling.  “Inventory!  Everyone on the grounds and in the house.  Who could have done it?”

“There's you and me.”  Bradley grinned.

“You know we didn't do it.”

“Willowby didn’t, since he was outside the house at the time.”

“And Willowby.  Who was in the house?”

“Sheila, Heydrick, Mrs. Marshpool, Armagnac, Jac, her kids, and Lance of course.  Maybe Lance committed suicide.”

“From a shot in the back of the head?”

“Okay, okay.”

“The Cummingses drove up right after the shot, so it wasn't them.  Where exactly was everyone in the house?  Armagnac and the housekeeper were in Armagnac's bedroom, or so he claims, and he said Jac was in hers.  Sheila was in the kitchen, she says.  You know, it occurs to me that nobody can prove where Sheila was, or Heydrick.”

“But Eric, she had to be in the kitchen because of that dough.  Didn't you see her arms?  Can you imagine shooting a gun through a fistful of bread dough?  Can you imagine cleaning the gun off afterwards?  It would be impossible.”

“But no one knows where the gun is,” Eric insisted. “Maybe Sheila had to hide the gun because of the gunk on it.  Maybe she shot Lance and ran downstairs, then plunged her hands into the bread dough to make it look like she had been in the kitchen the whole time.  Would bread dough mess up the residue tests?  I'll have to ask Wendy.  It might.”

“But why would she shoot Lance?” Smith objected. “What’s her motive?  I think it must be Heydrick.  All of us have taken that residue test at the station and come out clean.”