The Tail of the Tip-Off (26 page)

47

A
lthough the distance from the restaurant to the Donaldson house was only eight miles, the slick roads demanded careful driving.

Twenty minutes later Rick and Cooper reached Anne's front door.

Relief flooded their features when Anne opened it.

“Are you alone?” Rick removed his hat.

“The baby-sitter's here. Come in, Sheriff. Come in, Deputy.”

“Thank you.” They both stepped into the front hall.

“Has anyone called on you this evening?”

Anne looked at Rick. “You mean at the door?”

“Yes.”

“No. Margaret, the baby-sitter, well, her mother dropped her off. I had a few errands to run and didn't want to leave Cameron alone. This was also a way to ensure she gets her homework done. Sixth grade, and they pile the homework on these kids. Uh, won't you sit down? Come on into the living room.”

They followed her in, sitting down in chairs facing the sofa where Anne took a seat.

“Mrs. Donaldson, has anyone phoned? E-mailed?”

“No. Since H.H.'s death the phone's been silent most of the time and my messages on the computer are either advertisements or from my sister.” She smiled without happiness. “When people think you've murdered your husband you fall off the ‘A list,' if you know what I mean.”

“I can imagine,” Cooper replied.

Rick shifted in his chair, leaning forward. “Mrs. Donaldson, I have reason to believe you were in Tazio Chappars's office tonight. Why?”

A long, long pause followed. “Are you charging me with, well, whatever one charges in those cases?”

“Not yet,” Rick replied. “Were you in her office?”

“No.” Anne folded her hands in her lap.

“Tazio has made a positive ID,” he fibbed while Cooper took notes as unobtrusively as possible.

“Let her make it in court.” Anne was quite calm.

“All right then. You weren't in Tazio's office tonight but if you were what would you look for?” He smiled.

“Nothing. Our relations have been cordial even when people hinted she and my husband were having an affair.”

“Were they?”

“No. But any attractive single woman is suspect by those who feed off that kind of thing.” A note of bitterness crept into her voice.

“H.H. worked with her on—” he turned to Cooper, “how many expensive homes?”

“Last one on Beaverdam Road, six hundred fifty thousand dollars. Delay in completion due to H.H.'s demise and weather. New move-in date, March first.”

“Yes, the crews have resumed working.” Anne brought her hand to her face, resting her chin for a moment on her thumb. “I'm running the business now.”

“You worked with your husband prior to his death?”

“No. I know very little, but I do know the Lindsays need to get into their house. The crew keeps working, the foreman is good, and I'm studying as much as I can as fast as I can, but I expect like most else in this life you learn by doing it. I don't want to put all these men out of work. My husband built up a fine company. I've got to keep it going until I feel I can make better decisions. I don't trust myself right now.”

“Do you think you can work with Tazio?”

“Of course. She's a gifted architect but now that she's gotten a taste for grand design I don't know if she'll piddle and paddle with residential design.”

“Do you suspect her of wrongdoing?”

“No.”

Rick leaned back in the chair, then leaned forward again. “You must suspect something.”

“No.”

“Did H.H. say anything to you before his death that made you question her? Or question the business?”

A very long pause followed this. “Once when I challenged him about the affair, not with Tazio, as I said, but his latest”—she shrugged—“the argument escalated, and at one point he said, ‘You have no idea what goes on in my business. None. You just take the money I make and spend it. I'm under a lot of pressure. Competition, Anne. You know nothing of competition. So what if I indulge myself? Blow off steam. It's better than booze or drugs.' I thought it was another attempt at justification. Oh, the human mind is so subtle in the service of rationalization! But now, now that I've had time to think, I wonder. I'm still shell-shocked. I know that. I don't trust my emotions right now but I trust my mind. Sex, love, and lust are motives to kill. Well, I didn't kill him but there must be some women out there with those motives.”

“We have questioned, uh, other women. They have alibis.” Rick patted his breast pocket. The crinkle of the cellophane on his Camel pack offered some succor. He knew better than to ask Anne if he could light up.

“I see.”

“Mrs. Donaldson, did he ever use the term ‘double-dipping'?” Cooper finally spoke.

“No. Charging twice for the same service or materials?”

“Yes.” Cooper nodded.

“No. I think H.H. was aware that some people did it. Not many. Most of the reputable firms in Charlottesville really are reputable. There's so much competition among construction firms, if someone was double-billing sooner or later the word would get out.”

“But double-dipping, if one wanted to be crooked, would be a way to bypass Fred Forrest.” Rick heard the baby-sitter come to the top of the stairs and then walk back down the upstairs hall.

Anne heard her, too. “Margaret, it's okay. Do you need anything?”

“Uh, Mrs. Donaldson, Mom expects me home.”

“All right, dear. I'll run you home in about”—she looked at the law officers—“ten minutes.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Donaldson.”

“Actually, I'll take Margaret home.” Rick spoke firmly. “You stay put and Deputy Cooper is staying with you.”

Indignant, Anne sharply said, “Am I under house arrest?”

“Far from it. We happen to think you may be in danger and I don't want you left alone until we wrap this up.”

“You're close? You're close to arresting H.H.'s killer?” Dread and excitement filled her voice.

“I think we are.”

“Were you in Tazio's office to find a second set of books? Did you think she was in on it?” Rick stood up.

Anne stood up, too, and slapped her hips with her hands. “Well, if an architect were in on it, it would spread the risk, wouldn't it? It would be easier to jack up the costs, too, if, say, an architect and a construction firm were in collusion. That's not double-dipping. That's padding the bill. It could be quite elegantly done, you know.” Anne betrayed a greater knowledge of the business than she had previously admitted to.

“Why Tazio?”

“Young, ambitious, very smart, rising in this world.”

“Maybe you thought she was vulnerable because she's African-American. Less principled? More eager for money.” Rick knew just when to slip the knife in.

“Actually, Sheriff, that thought never crossed my mind. Aren't we beyond those petty prejudices?”

“No,” Rick simply said.

“Ah, well, I am.” She paused. “Sheriff, I shall assume that you no longer believe I murdered my husband.”

“Let's just say you're slipping down the list of suspects.” He smiled.

“Then may I ask why I may be in danger?”

“Two reasons. The first is the killer's fear that—for whatever reason—you'll put two and two together. The second is that the story about being in Tazio's office will make the rounds. Why would you be there unless you were looking for something that had to do with business?”

“I never said I was there.”

“You don't have to. Others will say it for you.”

“One more question, Sheriff, before you leave me in the capable hands of Deputy Cooper. The toxicology report?”

Rick said, “The minute the substance is identified I'll call you. It can't be too much longer.”

48

T
he party broke up at the Grille. Little Mim took out her noisemaker, a little worse for wear, and blew an olive pit through it at Blair. Emboldened by her accuracy, she also hit Harry, BoomBoom, and Fair.

“Really, Marilyn,” Big Mim disapprovingly chided.

“Oh, Mother.” The daughter, in the process of her emancipation, sailed by her and out the door.

“Good evening, ladies.” Blair inclined his head, the gentleman's version of a small bow, and left with Little Mim.

“What is the matter with her!” A flicker of genuine anger flashed across Big Mim's well-preserved face.

“She's in love. Leave her alone. The question is, ‘What's the matter with you?' ” Aunt Tally, as usual, was painfully direct in her manner.

“You saw what happened to her first husband, a wastrel if ever there was one.”

Miranda and Tracy slipped by, not wishing to participate in the discussion. Big Mim and Aunt Tally blocked the door. Harry respectfully stood behind the two older women. Jim paid the bill for everyone over the protests of the men and a few of the ladies.

“Honeybunch, don't get yourself exercised,” he called from the cash register counter.

“You always take her side.” Big Mim grimaced.

“No I don't, but she has to live her own life. We made our mistakes. Let her make hers and you know what? This may not be a mistake. Now, honeybunch, you relax.”

“Men,” Mim muttered under her breath.

“Can't live with them. Can't live without them,” Aunt Tally concurred, but she rather liked the living-with-them part, not that she'd married. She hadn't, but she certainly had had a string of tempestuous affairs starting back in the 1930s. As a young woman, in her late teens she blossomed into a beauty and even now, in her nineties, vestiges of that ripeness could still be glimpsed.

“I'm doing okay,” Harry whispered to Aunt Tally.

“Me, too,” BoomBoom agreed.

“You're both deluding yourselves.” Tally did not whisper her reply.

Both women knew better than to disagree with Aunt Tally.

“Why are you all standing here looking at me?” Big Mim crossly addressed the others.

“You're blocking the door. Miranda and Tracy just squeezed out before you took up your stance.” Harry couldn't help but laugh a little. She truly liked Big Mim despite her airs.

“Oh. Well, why didn't you say something?” Big Mim stepped aside.

Each bid her good evening. Fair had walked back to Jim to fuss over the bill.

“Get out of here. I have more money than is good for me. You go take care of horses,” Jim good-naturedly said to the veterinarian.

The Sanburne generosity was legendary. Fair thanked Jim but made a mental note that his next barn call to Mim's stable would be gratis.

He opened the door and the chill brought color to his cheeks. Harry and BoomBoom were already in the parking lot.

“Hey, girls, wait for me.”

“Oh?” Harry laughed.

BoomBoom, prudently, unlocked her BMW without comment.

“What this town needs is an after-hours bar,” Fair jovially replied.

“In Crozet? Right. Get two people every Saturday night.” Harry, like most residents, worked hard and rose early.

“You're right, but we might be the two.” He waved as BoomBoom flashed her lights, then pulled out. “I know two kitties and one corgi who are lonesome for me.”

“We like ourselves a lot tonight.”

“I like you a lot every night.”

The clear winter sky, the snow on the ground, the glow from a good meal, all added to Fair's potent masculine appeal. Plenty of women's eyes widened when they first met the tall blond. His warm manner, his slow-burn sense of humor, he just had a way about him.

“You are too kind.” She fluttered her eyelashes, mocking what Northerners thought Southern belles did to ensnare men. Harry's experience was that men wanted to ensnare her a lot more than she wanted to ensnare them, but tonight Fair did look good.

“What about a nightcap?”

“Uh, okay.”

They reached the farm in fifteen minutes. The cats and dog joyously greeted them.

Harry poured a scotch for Fair and made herself a cup of Plantation Mint tea.

They sat side by side on the sofa.

“Big Mim's being a snot about Blair.”

Fair felt the warmth of the scotch reach his stomach. “He'll win her over—if that's what he wants to do. I still can't make up my mind about that guy.”

“What do you mean?”

“He seems like a real guy but I don't know, modeling is, well, it's not a guy thing.”

“Fair, that's not fair.”

“Terrible to have Fair for a name. Am I prejudiced? To a degree.”

“Well, at least you're honest.” Harry decided not to get into an argument about male sexuality.

“Pewter and I ought to be models for Purina or IAMS or one of those cat food brands. We could sell ice to the Eskimos,”
Mrs. Murphy purred.

“Bet I could, too.”
Tucker put her paws on the sofa.

“You'd be irresistible, Tucker,”
Pewter complimented her.
“Those expressive brown eyes, that big corgi smile.”

“Thank you.”
Tucker, with effort, got up on the sofa.

“I don't know if I've ever seen Little Mim be silly. She wasn't even silly when we were children,” Harry mused. “Nailing us with olive pits.”

The tall man got up from the sofa.

“Where's he going?”
Mrs. Murphy rubbed her paw behind her ear.

“Where are you going?” Harry echoed her.

“More ice.”

He walked into the kitchen. Harry's refrigerator did not have an icemaker. He removed an ice tray, held it over the sink, twisted the plastic tray and the cubes popped out into the sink, onto the counter. Some broke, leaving little shards like glass glistening in the light.

Harry heard him curse. She joined him in the kitchen. The animals came in, too.

“I'll clean it up.” Harry grabbed a dish towel.

“I made the mess. I'll clean it up. Damn, Harry, I'll buy you a new refrigerator with an icemaker!” He began picking up the fractured ice cubes. “Ouch!” A spot of blood bubbled on the tip of his forefinger.

“That's it!”
the animals shouted.

Fair sucked his wound.

Harry tore a little strip of clean, soft napkin and held it to his forefinger.

The animals continued making a racket.

“Will you all shut up?”

“Pay attention! You want to be a detective. Detect.”
Mrs. Murphy thrashed her tail.

Harry shushed them.

Fair laughed. “It's not that bad.” He put his hand over Harry's. He pulled her hand away. She still had a grasp on the napkin. The dot of blood, cherry red on the white, almost sparkled.

Both humans stared at it for an instant, then at one another.

“Fair?”

“I'm thinking the same thing.” His eyebrows shot upward.

“Good God. It's diabolical.” Harry sagged against the kitchen counter for a moment.

“Yes! Ice!”
all three animals bellowed.

“But it makes sense.” Fair swept the ice fragments into the sink. “Bill Langston mentioned cold's ability to numb. I should have thought of that.” He frowned.

“None of the rest of us did. It's, well, it's so imaginative.” Harry took his hand, leading him back to the living room.

They sat down. The cats jumped on the sofa as did Tucker with more effort.

“We're finally getting somewhere,”
Pewter said.

“You forgot your ice cube.” Harry rose.

Fair pulled her down. “Forget it. Ice. An ice dart. The dart melts. No weapon. The poison is on the tip of the dart. The person wouldn't risk ingesting it. Perfect.”

“Right. And the poison, I mean toxin—BoomBoom did some research on that—is delivered as the ice melts. But Fair, what in the world could work that fast?”

“I don't know.” He sipped his scotch. “But our tiny weapon could have been delivered in a number of ways. Think about it. Fred could have stuck him in the parking lot. Or someone could have thrown it at him as he walked to his car. But how do you throw a piece, a little piece, mind you, of ice?”

“You don't. You'd have to stab.” Harry listened to the logs crackle in the fireplace. “Unless you blow it. Like Little Mim blowing the olive pits.”

“Yes—yes.” He folded his hands together. “Some kind of blowgun. With that it would be pretty easy to hit H.H. as he walked through the parking lot. Or even the hallway.” He thought a moment. “Too crowded. The parking lot.”

“That gets Fred off the hook.”

“Yes.”

“A noisemaker. That could hide a blowgun. Fair, this could have been done at the end of the game while we were in our seats. H.H.'s body melts the ice sliver and the toxin hits him in the parking lot.” She paused a long time. “Behind me. The killer sits behind me.”

“But what does Mychelle have to do with this?” He felt confused. “Maybe her death isn't connected.”

“It's connected. It's connected and the killer is Matthew Crickenberger.”

Fair's eyes widened. “But why? That makes no sense. Anne makes sense. And, Harry, much as we like her, she has the motive.”

“So how did she kill him?”

“Puts her arm around him or touches his neck.”

“And the warmth of her fingers won't melt the ice? This has to be a thin, sharp dart delivered with force.”

“Blowgun.” He nodded in agreement.

“But why?”

“I don't know. Harry, other people sat behind you.”

“I know, but the Sanburnes, BoomBoom, Hayden McIntyre—no motive. Matthew was connected by business.”

“Or Mychelle?” Fair said.

“He'd won out over H.H. He has a boatload of money. Why?”

Fair took a deep breath. “Well, this is all conjecture. We don't really know that it's Matthew.”

“Maybe he hit Tracy over the head. He was removing evidence.” She clapped her hands together, startling the animals. “After a while, your head spins.”