Killing Cassidy (24 page)

It saddened me that there was no work in progress. I had never known Kevin when he wasn't working on some learned paper or other. But he'd given up his work in the lab. He'd had nothing to write about.

There was only one painting on the wall, a big oil of some zinnias in a blue glass bowl, done years ago by a local artist, Kevin had told Frank and me. It was a lovely thing. I wondered if it would look nice in Mary Alice's house and if she would like to have it. I wouldn't ask her; she resented me. But I'd try to remember to mention it to the lawyer.

That seemed to be it for the living room. I made a methodical search of the kitchen—no food, but otherwise as usual, I'd guess. And the food would have been removed by whoever had taken such thoughtful care of other details. Whoever they were, they'd missed only the library books.

I had to steel myself to enter the bedroom, but it, too, was in apparently normal condition. I'd been in it once or twice, probably—guests used to put their coats on the bed—but I remembered almost nothing about it. It all looked normal to me, as did the bathroom. The bathroom cabinet, with its lethal potential, I left to Alan. Criminal matters were his department. I went on looking for something out of the ordinary.

And I didn't find it. I exhausted the possibilities in the main house at about the same time that Alan pronounced himself finished, so we went out together to the shed that had served as Kevin's workshop.

“I've never seen any of this before,” I reminded Alan. “He built this after I left town. So I can't be any help at all.”

“Do you know anything about stained glass?”

“Nothing whatever, except that I like it, at least when it's as well done as Kevin's.”

“You know,” said Alan, running a hand down the back of his neck, “I have a nagging feeling there's something odd about this stained-glass business.”

“Odd how? You can't mean Kevin was up to something shady?”

“No, no. It simply seems to—crop up. So many people had some of Kevin's projects. So many people visited him with commissions shortly before his death. And there's something else—something—” He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose, as if he could rub it, like a lamp, and the genie of his missing idea would appear. “No,” he said at last. “It's gone. I'd best leave it alone; it'll surface if I don't try to think of it. Let's see what we can find.”

We looked around. The workshop, small but adequate, looked like the rest of Kevin's domain, slightly untidy but essentially clean. Small sheets of glass in jewel colors lay on their sides in padded racks against one wall. Rolls of copper foil tape and solder were stacked on the workbench. Glass cutters, pencils, and colored marking pens stood upright in an old, dimpled English beer mug. A small stack of face masks, the kind dentists and nurses use, lay next to it. Two stacks of graph paper, one unused, one with designs drawn on the sheets, were neatly lined up on one corner of the bench. In the center lay an unfinished project, a simple sun-catcher in a wavy pattern and the colors of the sea, cerulean blue, turquoise, aquamarine. A few pieces were lined up on top of the corresponding parts of the pattern; the rest were yet to be cut. I couldn't bear to look at it.

There was nothing unusual at all. Alan examined everything twice and then shook his head.

“Whatever it was I expected to find, it isn't here.” He looked at me carefully and put his arm around my shoulders. “And you've had as much as you can take, love. Let's go back to the hotel, and you can cry all you want.”

I
did cry. I lay on the bed and bawled, but this time it wasn't out of depression or frustration. It was for Kevin and the waste of the good years he'd still had left, for the poignancy of the unanswered letters, the unread books, the unfinished beauty he'd left behind. When I'd gotten it out of my system, I sat up, blew my nose, and straightened my hair.

“There. That's that. I couldn't help it, but I'm over it now, and I'll shed no more tears for dear Kevin. He wouldn't like it; he hated to see women cry. What I need to do now—what we need to do—is go back to the notebooks and see what we've got.”

“No, what we need to do is find some lunch. Do you realize it's long past noon?”

“Oh. That would account for the hollow feeling. I thought it was just grief.”

We split a stromboli sandwich—Alan had become addicted to them—and then got right back to the hotel and to work.

“Did you find anything unusual at Kevin's house?” I sat down at the table and opened the notebook to a fresh page.

“All my evidence is negative. There were no signs of forced entry. I'd have been surprised to find any, of course, since he didn't lock his doors. I could see no signs of a search, either. No one came in to find the hidden jewels, or the treasure map, or even the stash of cocaine.”

I looked up from the notebook, startled. “Alan! What stash of cocaine?”

“The one that no one came looking for, because it didn't exist. Nothing was hidden anywhere, so far as I could tell without taking the place apart. There wasn't even a gun or any ammunition, which is perhaps a little unusual for an American living alone, out in the country.”

“My dear prejudiced Englishman! We're not all armed to the teeth. I told you Kevin tried to live in harmony with nature. He didn't like guns.”

“Ah, yes, you did say that. Full marks to Kevin. I also studied the telephone wires rather carefully, but could find no sign, inside the house or out, of tampering.”

“Oh. Does that mean the phone problems were accidental? Nothing to do with our villain?”

“Possibly. Or, more probably, he or she found some more subtle way to disrupt Kevin's service.”

“Like what?”

“My dear, I am not an expert on the subject. It did look as though the wires had been in place for quite some time, so they are presumably old-fashioned coaxial cable rather than modern fiber optics. In that case I would guess that something as simple as a sturdy pin, inserted into the cable in exactly the right spot so as to touch both wires, would short out the system.”

“And then the pin could be taken out again and everything would go back to normal?”

“I don't know. That would depend on the nature of the system and, as I have said, I'm no expert. Certainly a pin, or even a narrow brad, would leave little trace of its having been there, only a very tiny hole in the insulation. Unless one were looking for such a thing, it would pass unnoticed.”

“And were you looking for a hole?”

“I was not.” Alan grinned. “I only just thought of it, if you want the truth. I was looking for evidence of criminal activity, and I found nothing significant, save to eliminate the obvious. And you, my dear Miss Pinkerton?”

I smiled to myself. So he read Mary Roberts Rinehart. I was learning things about my husband on this trip. “Nothing much. He hadn't blacked his stove lately. Some of the finish was gone, on the back, and there were some funny stains on the floor there, too. I suppose they were burn marks, although Kevin was always very careful about making sure the stove was safe. He was a real expert on Franklin stoves. Maybe he spilled something and never got a chance to clean it up. Oh, and the library books. Darn, I forgot to bring the library books back with us.” I explained about the books.

“Well, we can always go back. I ought to take a look at those stains, just so we can cross them off our list.”

I made a couple of brief entries and then turned back to the beginning of the notebook.

“We can fill in a lot of this, now. Let's go to work.”

We worked solidly for an hour, condensing, summarizing, now and then adding a note. When we had finished, I looked at the results, yawned, and flexed my shoulders.

“All right. We progress. Jerry is eliminated, poor dear—in every sense. Darryl and Dr. Boland are eliminated because they were out of town at material times. Darn it, I regretted drawing that line through Boland's name! If ever a man deserved to be convicted of
something
, he does.”

“At least it means we needn't take in the opera tomorrow night.”

“Oh, yes, we do! I want to give the man a piece of my mind. He may not be guilty of Kevin's death, or Jerry's, but he's guilty of a lot of other unpunishable crimes.”

Alan rolled his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.

“So that leaves Michelle Carmichael, Hannah Schneider, Mary Alice Harrison, and that miserable excuse for a preacher, Bob Bussey.”

We studied their entries carefully.

“Michelle Carmichael. Briskly efficient, discreet, probably borrowed money from Kevin.”

“We don't know that, Dorothy.”

“That's why I said ‘probably.' I still think she did, though. There was something about the way she carefully didn't say anything. Okay, moving on. Hannah Schneider. Fanatic, extremely busy. Ordered stained glass from Kevin. He donated to her cause.”

“And she didn't want to talk about the stained glass!” said Alan triumphantly. “I knew there was something about the glass. That's it. Hannah didn't mention she'd been there recently, remember?”

“Vaguely. But I honestly think she just forgot. Goodness knows she has enough irons in the fire to make anybody forget something minor like that.”

I waited, but Alan made no reply, so I went ahead.

“Mary Alice Harrison. A bitter woman, but no motive to kill Kevin. She doesn't inherit.”

“Ah, but wait a minute. When did she know she didn't inherit? Did she go to the solicitor before or after Kevin died?”

I thought about that. “After,” I said slowly. “Because she said something about not wanting to bother him for money, but once he had no further use for it … something like that.”

“So she didn't know that there was no money for her until after he was dead.”

We considered that for a moment. I made a note. “But, Alan, that poor woman—two small children and another on the way …”

“Mothers will do what is necessary to protect their young,” he said gently.

I sighed. “All right, you've made your point, but my money is still right here.” I pointed to the chart, now a spidery mess of arrows and interlinings and obliterations.

“Dear old Parson Bob? On what grounds?”

“On the grounds, first, that I can't stand him, and second, he's the type who would kill his grandmother and make it sound like he ought to get a medal for it, and third, he didn't like Kevin. He's the only one we've talked to who didn't, you realize. Besides, he looks like every movie villain you've ever seen on the late show, and I don't care if my reasoning is way off in left field, I think we ought to go over there and ask him some very pointed questions. It's probably too late today, but first thing tomorrow. A little harassment of a sanctimonious phony sounds like a lovely way to spend a morning, don't you think?”

“It has its attractions, I admit. Very well. First agenda item for tomorrow: the questionable cleric.”

Parson Bob, it turned out, didn't live next door to the church as one might expect. We drove out there on Thursday morning and found no one home at the tiny house next to the cemetery; the name on the mailbox was “Stoner.” The church itself was locked up tight with no one around. A phone booth at a nearby gas station actually had a phone book in it, by some miracle, but Bob Bussey wasn't listed. “Hmph!” I snorted. “Unlisted number for a pastor. Fine minister to his flock he must be!”

“Yes, well, we had already deduced that. Dare we ask our good friend the police chief?”

“Let's try the library first. They'll have a city directory.”

We found him there, with a five-digit address on a street called Hummingbird Way. “Never heard of it. It'll be in one of those new subdivisions; I'll need a map.”

The house turned out to be a painfully new one, raw red brick with a broad, gleaming concrete driveway. It was ostentatious without being in any way beautiful, its impact being one of sheer size. Three-car garage, double front doors, huge bay window, wings and ells and porches and extensions. Its harsh newness was softened by no plantings; even the grass was not yet well established. As we approached, the larger of the two garage doors started to slide up, and we heard a car engine start.

“Quick, Dorothy! Pull into the drive.”

I obeyed, situating our car carefully so that whichever car was about to go out, the way would be blocked. And then I saw the big Lincoln start to move.

I thought for one awful moment that the preacher wasn't even going to look, and I had visions of extensive repairs to our uninsured rental car. However, the big black car traveled only a few inches before it stopped. The car door slammed, and a furious parson charged out of the garage.

“You'll have to move your car, whoever—oh. It's you. Well, I'm just leaving, as you might have noticed if you'd been paying attention. I have an important call to make, so you'll have to come back later if you want to talk to me.”

“We do want to talk to you,” said Alan, getting out of the car with surprising speed. There was no trace of his usual amiability on his face or in his voice. “And I'm afraid it will have to be now.”

“What do you mean? Who do you think you are, bossing me around? You're trespassing, I'll have you know!”

His private manner was certainly different from the one he employed in front of his congregation.

“You know that my name is Alan Nesbitt,” said my husband, still in that hard voice. “I don't believe I told you that I was the principal law enforcement officer for the county of Belleshire.”

Oh, bravo Alan! I didn't think Parson Bob, whose pale complexion was now a nasty shade of green, would notice Alan's careful use of the past tense. Nor was he apt to question where in the world Belleshire was.