Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring (9 page)

Wyatt stopped chewing and turned to look me directly in the eyes. “What have you done this time, Lexie?”

“Well, you see,” I stammered. “Bonnie has Alzheimer’s and gets confused, and she forgets a lot of things. I’m afraid we might have accidentally misled her into thinking she was responsible for Thurman Steiner’s death. It was certainly not our intention.”

“Harold told us about the Alzheimer’s,” Wyatt said. “Do you honestly believe Bonnie could’ve actually had something to do with Steiner’s murder? Harold stated he was out of town, attending a college graduation and visiting family in Knob Noster. The detectives really don’t suspect Bonnie of the crime, but reasoned she could have become completely confused, particularly if home alone at the time, and convinced herself she needed to kill him for some reason. We can’t overlook any possibility, no matter how remote and irrational it may seem. Bonnie might now have no recollection of her actions that morning. No one can fathom how she could have the strength to perform such an act. But she
was
the one who found him and reported his death, which automatically makes her a suspect.”

“That’s what I told her, which is what confused her into thinking she was the killer. But, no, she couldn’t have killed him. I’m almost certain of that.”

“How do you know that for sure? I agree I can’t imagine how someone of her age, and in her physical condition, could have taken down the pastor, even though he was not a very large man and could have been taken completely off guard. Stranger things have happened and, like I said, we have to look at every possibility. So what makes you so certain Bonnie couldn’t possibly have harmed Steiner?” Wyatt asked.

“Bonnie told me she’d watched the movie
The Day After
early that morning. I checked the TV guide and it really had been playing on HBO between four and six-thirty. It was during that period of time that Nate estimated Thurman had been killed. I can’t see Bonnie leaving her home in the middle of a movie she’s interested in to go commit a murder, and then return to her home to watch the remainder of the film. It’s just not logical. If Bonnie were experiencing one of her confused and forgetful episodes, she surely wouldn’t have been able to focus enough to concentrate on a movie and then remember any of the details about it at a later time. At least I wouldn’t think she could.”

“There are usually a lot of things that aren’t logical surrounding a crime of this nature. But how do you know she really watched the movie?” Wyatt asked.

“I’m no expert on Alzheimer’s, but she gave me accurate details about the movie that she most likely wouldn’t have remembered if she’d watched it years ago, or even probably a week ago. Even now she may be losing memories of the movie due to the Alzheimer’s. It’s the nature of the beast.”

“Yes,” Wyatt agreed. “But Harold told us Bonnie could recite stories of events that happened forty or fifty years ago almost verbatim, but couldn’t remember what she’d had for lunch by suppertime. Alzheimer’s can cause a person to have a very selective memory.”

I nodded. “I know that to be true, Wyatt. My grandfather had Alzheimer’s and spoke in detail about a German shepherd he once owned as a child, but he didn’t recognize any of us, even Grandma. As Harold told us, this entire incident has had a very adverse affect on his wife, which caused her Alzheimer’s to be even more pronounced than usual. For her to relate such specific details about the movie, I feel like she had to have just seen it. And talking about seeing Thurman’s door being open, his newspaper in the drive, and so on, it almost definitely had to have occurred, or she’d have been unable to give the authorities any statement at all.”

“We hadn’t cast much suspicion on her anyway. So, yes, I believe you’re probably right.”

“She is, Wyatt,” Stone said. “I truly believe Bonnie Bloomingfield could no more have killed Thurman Steiner than you or I could have. She was just having one of her bad days again today, I’m afraid. As Lexie told you, we didn’t mean to mislead her. I knew at the time I agreed to accompany Lexie that I would come to regret the decision. I’ll use more discretion next time. I should have learned that by now.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Stone. I know how persuasive Lexie can be. And I know you didn’t intend to mislead Mrs. Bloomingfield. The conclusion you’ve come to is pretty much what the investigating team determined too,” Wyatt said.

Stone ran his fingers through his silver hair, and continued, “I can understand why the trauma of finding Thurman’s body would trigger a setback with the Alzheimer’s. I sure hope this setback is reversible, and not a permanent infliction. I feel so bad for Bonnie, and Harold too, of course.”

“It goes without saying that we all do. While Mrs. Bloomingfield was at the station the chief had me take a set of her fingerprints, which I personally thought was unnecessary. Naturally, this upset her again, making her even more certain she was about to be arrested for murder. It kind of irked Harold too. But her prints did match a couple of the one’s found in Steiner’s kitchen, which is not at all unexpected, since she was the person who found him dead and would have naturally touched a few items while reaching for the phone to call nine-one-one. That only leaves a couple of fingerprints left that haven’t been accounted for yet, and no matches were found on IAFIS, the national database of prints,” Wyatt said. He paused to snatch another cream-filled Danish off the pastry platter, and then continued.

“One last thing before I have to leave. A citizen on Cedar Street, just about two blocks from the pastor’s house, called in to the police department to report a vehicle being parked in front of his house numerous times in the last couple of months. Most often it’s parked there in the afternoon, generally around three-thirty to five-thirty or so. The concerned citizen had never seen the driver, but said the morning of the murder was the first time he’d ever seen it parked in front of his house early in the morning. He couldn’t recall the exact time, but thought it could have been there at five. A noise outside had awakened him and he’d gone to the front door to look out. That’s when he noticed the car, and thought it was an unusual time for it to be parked there.”

“Do you think the car is connected to the murder?” Stone asked his friend.

“We have no way to determine that at this point, but we’re looking for the owner of a black Ford Mustang, maybe two or three years old. Just to question him, of course. We have nothing to connect him to the crime, and it’s probably unrelated, but still worth checking in to. Sometimes the most insignificant clue proves to be the turning point in solving a crime. And, like I said, we have to look at every possibility.”

“Let us know if you find out anything,” I said. “And I’ll let you know if I happen to hear anything about the black Mustang or the driver of that car.”

Wyatt nodded, rolled his eyes at Stone again, polished off his pastry in two bites, and gulped down his last swig of coffee. He turned to look at me and said, “I suppose it’s a waste of time to try to convince you to stay out of this investigation, Lexie. I know how stubborn and impulsive you can be. But can you at least promise me you’ll stop impersonating a member of the police squad? I can only protect you so much. The chief considered bringing you in to the station this time, but I was able to dissuade him. I might not be able to do that next time though, because his patience is wearing thin. And, believe me, you don’t want to be on the chief’s bad side.”

I promised. It was the least I could do for him keeping me out of trouble with the police department–twice! Wyatt stayed long enough to wolf down four or five more pastries and then excused himself to go back on patrol. I couldn’t believe what a mess I’d made of things where the Bloomingfields were concerned. I’d certainly never meant to upset them or convince Bonnie she’d had anything to do with the crime. Alzheimer’s was such a terrible disease. I vowed to tread more lightly in the future. I didn’t want to cause anybody else any unnecessary grief.

* * *

It didn’t take me long after Wyatt left to get a list of all the black Mustang owners in Rockdale. I placed a call to the local Department of Motor Vehicles, and was greeted by a pleasant female voice. I knew it was illegal to impersonate a police officer, but felt sure there was no law preventing me from pretending to be a gas station attendant.

“Good morning, ma’am,” I said. “I’m Brenda Burns, and I work for Rusty’s gas station here in Rockdale. We just had a customer drive off without paying for his gasoline. Now we’ve got to try and track him down to collect the money, and possibly press charges. Can I get a list of all the owners of black Mustangs in town? I’m sure you’ve had to do this hundreds of times.”

“No, actually I’ve never been asked by a gas station attendant for this kind of information before, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Really? I’m shocked. Oh, and we’ll also need their addresses.”

“I’m not allowed to give out addresses, Ms. Burns. Strict policy. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I said. I wasn’t too concerned about it because I knew that was why God had invented phone books. Calling the Mustang owners might prove faster and easier than visiting them, anyway. And safer, I had to admit to myself, even though I rarely let the lack of safety stop me. I’d surely be much better off if I did.

“I can give you all the owners’ names in the county if you prefer, but it would be a longer list,” the lady told me. “A lot longer, actually. There are quite a few black Mustang owners in this county for some reason.”

“I’ll just take the list of owners in town. For now, we’re going on the assumption it was a local driving the car, since Rockdale is kind of off the beaten path, not on a major freeway or anything. I’ll call you back if everyone on this shorter list checks out.”

“How will you know if they check out okay?” She asked, purely out of curiosity, I could tell. I hadn’t thought this plan out that far so I winged it. I had the innate ability to make up crap at the drop of a pin.

“They pumped twenty-two gallons of gas, so we should be able to tell by how full the gas tanks are in their Mustangs. If they’ve only got half a tank, we can assume they didn’t just fill their tank up. A full tank indicates a recent fill-up.” Suddenly it occurred to me that a car the size of a Mustang probably didn’t even have a large enough fuel capacity to hold twenty-two gallons. Hopefully this young woman did not know enough about cars to even question their fuel capacities. The receptionist’s voice sounded like as if it belonged to a girl in her early twenties. I figured her to be the driver of a Volkswagen bug or Mini-Cooper, not a Ford Mustang.

“That makes sense,” she replied, even though I knew it didn’t. I would guess she cared more about the newest high-heeled pumps available at Nordstrom’s than gas pumps at Rusty’s gas station, and how much you could pump into any given gas tank.

“Of course it’s only logical,” I agreed. “I’m ready for that list of black Mustang owners whenever you are.”

“Okay, hold on while I bring it up on my computer. It takes a couple minutes to get into that program. These antique computers are terribly slow. Someone needs to raise taxes so the DMV can afford to buy us more current equipment. I used a more sophisticated computer in my kindergarten computer lab than I use here at work.”

Yep, I thought, early twenties. This gal grew up with computers. I used a crayon and construction paper when I was in kindergarten, not a mouse and a modem.

“I’d rather have to wait a few minutes than pay higher taxes. Our taxes are high enough as it is,” I said. While I waited I poured myself a cup of coffee and started the dishwasher. The breakfast dishes needed to be washed before I got busy doing other chores. I’d served spinach omelets with sausage links, at around eight o’clock, but we’d left for the Bloomingfields before I’d had an opportunity to rinse off the dishes and place them in the dishwasher. I’d burnt the cheese and made a mess out of the skillet, so it was now soaking in the sink. I was pretty sure it was a lost cause. Another expensive skillet had bitten the dust.

“Ma’am?” I heard over the phone. “I have a list of five black Mustang owners for you.”

I grabbed a pen and pad of paper off the counter and jotted down the names as she listed them off. I thanked her and hung up the phone. I was certain the crime scene investigators had already gotten this list, as I imagined they probably had a similar software program in their computer as the DMV. But I didn’t want to ask Wyatt for the list, for obvious reasons. The entire police force was probably not too happy with me at the moment. I also figured they might be busy chasing down other leads and I could get a jump on checking out the people on the Mustang list. It was the least I could do for the police department, considering I’d been caught impersonating one of them twice in the last couple of days, even though the second time had been inadvertent.

I opened the phone book and soon had four addresses and phone numbers. One number was unlisted. I sat down at the kitchen table with my cell phone and coffee, absentmindedly swatting at a fly the size of a New York City sewer rat. Spring had definitely sprung, for the houseflies and other bugs and creepy crawlers were coming out in full force. Stone had removed a black rat snake from the shed the night before, and taken it out in the country to release it. I know black snakes eat mice, and other small varmints, which is helpful. But they also kill baby birds, and eat the eggs right out of the nests, which I just can’t tolerate. I had birdhouses and feeders hanging on practically every pole and tree limb in the yard, and a big birdbath in the center of the large flowerbed inside the perimeter of the circular driveway. I’d feel guilty luring the birds in just to have them be eaten by snakes we were harboring in our shed.