Fruit of All Evil (6 page)

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Authors: Paige Shelton

BOOK: Fruit of All Evil
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Officer Sam Brion was the most efficient person I knew. Well,
other than my sister, Allison. Sam, as I'd been told to call him during the last murder investigation in Monson, had the crime scene secured and all potential suspects/witnesses separated and readied for interview in record time.
Sam had come to South Carolina from Chicago about a year ago, under circumstances I hadn't yet been able to figure out, but I knew there was something horrible in his past; something that had caused him to flee the big city and move to a place where murder wasn't supposed to be such a common occurrence. All the best-laid plans . . .
I hadn't seen him for a couple weeks, but we became friends when I threw myself into the middle of Matt Simonsen's murder investigation. In fact, Sam'd been the one to save my life by taking down the killer before the killer could take me down.
“Becca,” he said without cracking a smile. He was definitely in work mode, his short brown hair slicked back and his uniform crisp and wrinkle-free. His bright blue eyes could sometimes be friendly, but they were professionally icy now.
“Hi, Sam.” I'd been assigned to the music room, which held a grand piano and a number of chairs and side tables. The piano was black, and the chairs were mostly beige and light yellow. I was perched on a piano bench that had been upholstered in purple fabric. Sam pulled a beige chair next to the bench and faced me.
“How are you?” he said without a hint that he was friendly and could be a fun guy.
“Not great. You?”
“The days without murder are better than the days with murder.”
“I agree.” I cleared my throat. I wanted him to quit being so official and just have a conversation, but I knew better. He was the consummate professional when it was required.
Over the last few months, and since he'd saved me from Matt Simonsen's killer, we'd become good enough friends that he always visited me at Bailey's whenever he was shopping, and every once in a while we'd run into each other at barbeques. Even though he and Ian were very different, they seemed to get along well, too.
“Tell me what you did today, in detail, beginning when Madeline Forsyth spoke to Linda McMahon at Bailey's this morning.”
“Okay, sure. It went something like this . . .”
And I recounted my day, to the best of my memory and up to the point that we found Madeline's body.
“You all found her body? You were all together?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think she might be alive?”
“She looked very dead. Oh, Sam, was . . . is she alive?”
“No, but I'd like for you to explain what you mean by ‘she looked very dead,' ” Sam said, still stone-cold serious.
“A scarf was wrapped around her neck. Her face was gray and swollen, I think. Her eyes were bulging.” My stomach turned at the memory.
“What color was the scarf?”
“Black-and-white checkered,” I answered without hesitation.
“Anything else you can remember?”
“I think one of her hands was in a puddle of blood on the bed. Is that right? Is that really what I saw?”
“Anything else?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“Well, the other hand was hanging off the bed. There was more than one wound on that hand, right?”
“Why did you notice that?”
“I'm not sure. What were the wounds, Sam? Why was there more than one on the hand? They looked like they were in a line, I think, but I can't be sure.”
“They were identical punctures that formed a straight line,” he said, sharing more than I bet he did with anyone else. “Do you know of anything that could do that?”
I shrugged. “A comb with really sharp teeth?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me what happened at dinner. What was discussed?”
Sam took notes in his small tan notebook as I replayed the dinner conversation. For the moment I left out my personal observations about Drew's cousins. It wasn't fair to judge them. I'd only just met them, and who knew what was behind their behavior?
“That it?” he asked when I finished.
“What do you think? Have you talked to the others? Do you think someone there was the killer?” I asked.
“I'm not going to tell you what I think, Becca. This is a murder investigation. One of the rules in the Police Handbook is that we're not to reveal everything we think or know until we solve the case.” He didn't smile.
“I know. I was just curious.”
“I know. How about you? You have anything else to add? What do you think—did someone you ate with seem murderous in any way?”
Again, I didn't want to judge, but maybe Sam did need to know about any behavior that might not have been wholly appropriate.
“We hadn't been eating long before the chef, Levi, came in to tell us he thought something was wrong. Before that, I thought Drew's cousins were somewhat different, but I really hadn't spent much time with them.”
“Different how?”
I told Sam about Sally's visible emotions, Alan's lack of a job, Shawn's supposedly kicking Mid under the table, but, admittedly, none of it seemed like a killer's behavior.
“Those are good things to note,” Sam said. “I'll see if I can understand what might have been going on. Ms. McNeil, Sally, is certainly the most distraught of everyone we've talked to. Perhaps she's just highly emotional.”
“How are Drew and Linda?”
“As fine as they can be, I suppose. Drew is upset, but he's pretty practiced at being stoic. I think Linda just wants to make sure Drew's okay,” Sam said as he peered at me. “Becca, do you think either Linda or Drew had something to do with Madeline's murder?”
“Of course not!”
“I knew you'd answer like that. I'd like for you to step back a bit—back from your friendships with them. Do you think there's any way either of them could have killed Madeline?”
No, I didn't think either of them had it in them to kill Madeline, but I was almost sure that they both might have spent moments wishing Madeline wasn't around any longer.
Finally I said, “No, Sam, I really don't think so. Neither of them . . . well, they're just both so . . . terrific, you know?”
Sam nodded. “I need to ask you a question, and you need to know how important it is for you to answer it one hundred percent correctly. What time did Linda leave Bailey's?”
My stomach somersaulted. Linda had left Bailey's early. I thought back to when I was helping her load the extra pies in her truck. She hadn't been too upset, just distracted.
“I guess she left about one o'clock, maybe one-thirty,” I said. I left out
which would have given her plenty of time to kill Madeline.
“Thank you, Becca,” Sam said, seemingly relieved at my answer.
“You sound like I got the answer right.”
“That's when she said she left, and though I can't rule her out at the moment—I can't rule anyone out—I didn't want her to have lied about the time she left.” Not only had Sam become a friend to me, but to most of my friends, too. He knew Linda and Drew, and from what I'd observed, he and Drew seemed to see the world the same way. They had lots in common, and Drew's profession impressed Sam, just like it did the rest of us.
“Good, then, I guess.”
“Yes. Okay, anything else?” Sam closed the notebook and stood as though he was certain we were through.
Apparently, when I looked up at him, something terrible showed on my face, because his face fell and he sat down again.
“What is it, Becca?” he asked.
Once I'd put Madeline's phone in my pocket, I couldn't figure out the best way to take it out and put it back. I had wanted to. I knew that taking it had been an impulsive and bad (putting it lightly) idea. And illegal, I was sure. But everything from that moment on had happened so quickly that I hadn't had a chance to undo my mistake. I still had it in my pocket.
“Sam,” I began.
The look in his blue eyes shifted. He was still serious, but was now preparing to be angry.
“Becca, what is it?”
“Well, it was an impulse. I couldn't help myself.”
“Becca. What. Did. You. Do?”
I sighed.
“Madeline's cell phone is in my pocket.”
“What? Where did you get her phone?”
“It was in her bedroom, next to the chaise. I just reached down, picked it up—careful not to touch it with my fingertips—and put it in my pocket. I still haven't touched it. It's still there.”
Sam sat back in the chair and inspected me, his eyes going from ice to fire. For a long time he didn't say anything.
“Why did you take the phone?”
I shrugged but didn't answer. I planned to use that answer in a minute.
“Becca?”
“What?”
“I'm trying to figure out if I should arrest you now or wait until you call to ask another question pertinent to the case that will be none of your business.”
“Oh, I promise I'm not going to investigate this murder, Sam. I'm very sorry that Madeline was killed, but I have every confidence that you can handle this one by yourself. You don't have to arrest me.”
There, I made him smile. Well, not really, but at least the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Stand up. Let's get it out of there,” Sam said as he stood up.
I stood and reached for my pocket.
“No, stop! Let me do it.” Sam pulled latex gloves out of his back pocket. Even those seemed to be well folded and wrinkle-free. He snapped both gloves in place and stepped forward.
“You're going to reach into my pocket? That seems a bit intrusive, doesn't it?” I said, attempting to make him smile again.
He didn't say anything, but looked down at me with controlled patience. The slacks weren't tight, so it was easy to pull at the seam and reach into the pocket. He maneuvered his fingers into the space, pinched the phone, and plucked it from the pocket—all without brushing my body in any way. However, his eyes did shift again, to something strange that made me want to look away. But he recovered and blinked them to normal as he stepped back.
“Very impressive,” I said.
“Becca, did you take anything else that might be considered evidence?” Sam asked, no humor anywhere.
“No.”
“Good. Now, it's my job to tell you not to leave town during the investigation.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“You are a potential witness. And the fact that you took the victim's phone makes you look suspicious and a bit crazy, but I wouldn't give you the full title of suspect. Just yet.”
“Got it.”
Sam still held the phone pinched between his gloved thumb and forefinger.
“You're free to go, now,” he said.
“Uh, well, . . .”
“What?”
“Then . . .” I was pushing my luck, but I couldn't leave without at least trying.
“What is it, Becca?”
“Well, is there any chance you'd look at the phone's call log and tell me if Madeline called Linda?”
“No.”
“Please, Sam, just a quick look. I just want to know if Madeline called Linda at any time today. And, and, well, if she didn't, I might have some information that could maybe potentially be important to the case.” This was my only bargaining chip, weak though it might have been. Sam, being a police officer, didn't bargain for such things. But we were friends—I hoped that would help.
“Really?” he said doubtfully. “What information?”
I was stretching his patience, and he was abnormally patient with me, even in the worst of circumstances. But I couldn't help myself.
“Explain the information.” He still held the phone.
“When Madeline stopped by Bailey's today to tell Linda about the dinner, she commented that she'd called Linda a number of times. Linda's phone didn't show the calls. It might not mean a thing, Sam, but it might. It's the reason I took the phone. I needed to know—though I'm not sure why—I just did. I didn't look at the phone because . . . well, because I realized how stupid I'd been to take it, I guess. What would it hurt? Just take a quick glance. You have the gloves on,” I added quickly. “Please.”
Sam took a deep breath and with his gloved fingers opened the phone. I moved to his side and glanced down at the small screen as he pushed the call button and a log immediately appeared.
Madeline had made a number of phone calls on the last day of her life. Sam scrolled down the list too quickly for me to digest much of anything, but I did catch three high points:
1. The name Linda didn't appear anywhere on the log of the day's calls. Of course, Madeline might not have attached Linda's name to her number, and there were quite a few numbers without names listed. Plus, I didn't know Linda's number by heart. She was on my speed dial, and when she called me, my screen just showed her name.
2. The name Jeanine Baker, the egg lady from Bailey's, did appear on the call log. I wondered if Sam noticed it and remembered who she was, but I didn't say anything. He'd figure it out soon enough, and I couldn't imagine that Jeanine was guilty of anything except making up conspiracy theories. However, I didn't think that she and Madeline moved in the same circle, and it was odd that Madeline had called her. I made a mental note to ask Jeanine for the details.
3. And finally, there was a number I recognized immediately. I wasn't good at hiding much of anything, so I was proud of myself for not gasping as I saw my boyfriend Ian's number move up the screen as Sam scrolled down. Again, Sam would eventually figure that Madeline Forsyth had called Ian on the day she died, but since a name wasn't attached to this number, he might not think it strange that I didn't point it out to him. Even though Ian's number was also programmed into my phone, it had an unusual pattern that was made up mostly of 4s and 5s. I had memorized his number the first time he told it to me.

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