Marcie's Murder (24 page)

It became obvious that neither of the women planned to approach him. He could hear them
talking
quietly, their voices too low to make out any of the words. He picked out an attractive brooch made of silver with some kind of
inlaid
material that looked like it might be tortoise shell. He took it down to the cash register at the far end of the counter and looked expectantly at the women.

One of them, sitting in a wooden rocking chair with a thick blue cushion, was quite old, perhaps in her eighties. She wore a green
and white plaid
shirt with the sleeves turned up, jeans, white socks
,
and white running shoes. Her long white hair was pulled back tightly and knotted at the back of her head. She stared at him with dark, glittering eyes as s
he rocked slowly back and forth in the rocking chair
.

The other woman stood up and came over to the cash.
She was a large woman
in her late fifties
, tall
and
heavy,
with a
dark
comple
xion
. She wore an ankle-length black dress with a green and white scarf around her neck. Her long
straight
black hair was shot through with broad
gray
streaks. She rang up the brooch and held out her hand for the money. Hank paid in cash. No one spoke.

Hank took his change and the little bag with the brooch and saw that the woman had already dismissed him from her consciousness. He stayed at the counter.

“Are you Betty Gibson?”

The woman turned around. “Who wants to know?”

Hank took out his
wallet
and opened it up so that she could see his badge and ID. “I’m assisting the local police in the investigation of the murder of Marcie Askew. I understand you were a friend of Mrs. Askew, is that right?”

“Are you with the state police?
I don’t recognize this ID.”

“I’m a homicide detective from Maryland. I happened to be here when Mrs. Askew was murdered
.
Deputy Chief Branham
has
asked me to
assist
.”

There was a hardness in her face that relaxed only microscopically at the mention of Branham’s name. “They can use all the help they can get. I don’t understand why the state police haven’t taken over already.”

“The
s
heriff’s
o
ffice is lending assistance but it’s still within the jurisdiction of the
municipality
. The state police would become involved if asked to by the
c
ommonwealth’s
a
ttorney, but as I understand it he’d rather have the
c
ounty
s
heriff provide support. You were a friend of Mrs. Askew?”

“Yes, I was.”

“How long had you known her?”

“Seven, eight years.” The bell over the door jingled as two people came into the store, a middle-aged woman and a teenager, obviously mother and daughter. “Can we do this another time?”

“I’ll wait. I
t’ll
only
take
a
few minutes.”

Betty Gibson moved around the edge of the counter and made her way to the front of the store
.
Hank heard her greet the older woman by name. They chatted for a few moments
.
Betty smiled and nodded at the teenager, leading her over to a display of leather moccasins.

Seeing that Betty planned to remain with them for a while, Hank went down to the other end of the counter, close to the old woman in the rocking chair.

“Nice day today.”

The woman stared at him.
H
er features were distinctly Native American. Her hands were folded in her lap.
Hank
saw a wedding ring on her left hand and a silver ring with a dark-colored stone setting on her right hand. She wore a copper bracelet on her right wrist, the kind that people wear to ease the symptoms of arthritis.

“I’ve been shopping,” Hank said, pulling his
messenger bag
around
and unfastening the flap
. “I’m not much of a shopper, though. I needed some shirts, so I bought this one.” He pulled out the pale yellow Joseph Abboud shirt and held it up under his chin. “What do you think?”

“Yellow shirts make you look sick,” she said.

Hank
put the shirt back
. “You may be right.
I have a yellow tie that I like to wear sometimes. A guy told me once that it made my teeth look even yellower than they already
we
re. I don’t wear that tie around him anymore.”

“Yellow ties look nice with blue shirts in summer,” she said.

“I couldn’t agree more.” He pulled out the pale blue shirt and held it up to his chin. “How about this?”

“Much better.”

Hank put the shirt back and leaned forward, holding out his hand. “I’m Hank Donaghue.”

She took his hand and shook it firmly. “How do, Hank. I’m
Louise
Coffee.”

“Do you live in town here, Mrs. Coffee?”

She shook her head. “Got a farm up on Dial Rock. Drive in pretty much every day when the weather’s good.”

“You drive yourself?”

“Sure. Didn’t you see my truck parked right in front?”

“The red one?” Hank remembered a battered old Nissan pickup truck that was parked in front of the vacant storefront next door.

“
Yep
. I may be eighty-seven but my eyesight’s still sharp and I can drive as good as you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Hank said.
“Are you related to Mrs. Gibson?”

“No. She was my daughter’s best friend. When
Brenda got real sick with the cancer, Betty stayed right with her. Held her hand, talked to her, read to her. Betty’s like another daughter to me. I stop in to visit with her near
ly
every day.”

“Did you know Marcie Askew?”

“Some. She liked to lock up her place next door during lunch and come in to sit with Betty.”

“What kind of person was she, Mrs. Coffee?”

“Marcie? Beautiful woman,
b
ut troubled.”

“Is he bothering you,
Louise
?” Betty
Gibson asked
, coming behind the counter with a pair of moccasins in her hand.

Mrs. Coffee closed her mouth tight and looked away, as though feeling guilty for having spoken to Hank.

The mother bought the moccasins for her daughter and when they left the store
,
Betty went back to her chair next to Mrs. Coffee and sat down.

“I don’t think there’s anything we can help you with,” she said to Hank dismissively.

He
didn’t move from the corner of the counter. “Maybe not. But you heard about Marcie Askew’s murder in the news, I take it.”

She nodded.

“You’re aware, then, that some
one
strangled her.”

Betty said nothing, looking away.

“She was strangled
by someone who used their bare hands to kill her.
It’s unusual for a woman to be killed that way by a stranger. It’s a very personal and unplanned sort of attack, usually happening during an argument or
a
struggle involving sex. A stranger would tend to use a ligature of some kind, a length of rope or wire.
It’s impersonal.
They plan ahead about gaining c
ontrol of the victim and
they
bring the ligature with them, but a man who strangles with his hands most likely knows the victim and believes he already has her under his control.
Since
Marcie most
likely knew her killer, I need to know more about her,
including
the people
she spent time with, so I can narrow this down and fi
nd out who did it.”

“That’s horrible,” Mrs. Coffee said.

“He’s just trying to upset us
.
” Betty looked at Hank. “I’d rather you just left us alone.”

“All right
.
” Hank shrugged, still not moving. “I saw her at the bar, not fifteen minutes before she was killed. She was waiting for someone. Whoever it was, they likely killed her.
S
he stepped out of the shadows in front of the bar to take a look at me
, but I wasn’t the one she was waiting for
. She was definitely upset about something. I didn’t know her, walked right past her into the bar.” Hank shifted on the corner of the counter, leaning forward to look directly into Betty’s eyes
.
“
Y
ou don’t generally stop and ask a woman what’s wrong when you’re a strange male in a strange place unless you’re looking for trouble. The best policy is to mind
your
own business and walk right by her, which is what I did. Now I’m in
the
position of trying to find out the hard way what I might have been able to find out just by stopping and talking to her.”

“She would have told you to hit the road,” Betty said.

“
I know,” Hank said. “Things happen the way they’re supposed to, ninety-nine percent of the time. I doubt I could have helped her,
as
you say. I had no idea what was going to happen to her fifteen minutes later, so I made my decision and walked on by. But it’s still rationalization. I still feel
terrible
that I saw her just before someone strangled her to death. Now I have to make up the difference. And I need help from people
who
knew her.”

Betty took a moment to think about it, then sighed. “Ask your questions.”

“Tell me about her,” Hank suggested. “How you met her, what she was like.”

1
9

At first, Betty began
after a long pause
, my relationship with Marcie was based on a mistaken impression on my part. I should probably explain
what I mean by that
before I talk about Marcie herself, because it will help you better appreciate the kind of person she was.

I
was born and raised in Williamson, West Virginia
,
which is about seventy miles from here.
Although it’s t
he county seat for Mingo County it’s not very large, only
three thousand people
or so. It sits right o
n the Tug Fork
. Directly across the river is
Kentucky.
My
father, John Roberts, was a handyman and jack of all trades.
My mother was a housewife and a quiet drunk. She sat up late at night, smoking and drinking, and slept most of the day. I didn’t really know either of them very well. There were
eight
of us kids, and no one stuck around for very long.

When
I
was twenty
I
married
Jack Gibson,
a man ten years older
than
my
self
who sold farm implements
for a company headquartered
up
in Charleston. His territory took him as far south as McDowell County, and occasionally he crossed the state line down into Tazewell
County
to attend meetings and social events with
other people
down here
who sold for the same company
.
After
ten years
of marriage
I
had two children, a boy of eight and a girl of six
that
I was
pretty much raising on
my
own. Then
Jack
announced
one day
he
’d
accept
ed
a transfer to Roanoke and
we were leaving in two weeks. H
e
’d
have responsibility for all of southwest Virginia.

I
didn’t want to move
, but
I
didn’t have much say in the matter
.
My
children were in a school they liked
,
and
I
had to manage their disappointment and fears about a new home, new friends
,
and new teachers
all
by myself
.
I had a small circle of friends I depended on to keep me from going insane
,
and I didn’t want to leave them either.
Once
we got to
Roanoke
I
found
I
was isolated and alone.
I could sense a negative attitude toward us from our neighbors, the store clerks
,
and the teachers in my children’s school, and i
t didn’t take
me
very long to
make a connection in my own mind to
our
ethnic
heritage.