4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4 (15 page)

Chapter 28

Henry Sutherlin didn’t spy. When he worked for Lydell, he made a point of keeping his eyes away from the house. The year previously, Miss Martha Marie had slipped past an upstairs window just as God created her. Henry figured if she’d seen him looking, she could make trouble, so now he kept his gaze focused on the task at hand. The disassembled cabins had been delivered two weeks before. The logs were coded and numbered to aid in reassembly. Lydell wanted them sorted so that the crew he’d hired somewhere in town could begin reconstructing his slave quarters. Something, a noise, a premonition, he would never be sure, made him turn and look at the house. Shadowy figures moved behind darkened windows. Just silhouettes, but he’d know George LeBrun and, of course, Lydell anywhere. He ducked behind a pile of the logs. He reckoned he couldn’t be seen. He remembered what the knife had done to Ike’s piece of paper and George was not someone to go through life with only one blade. He didn’t want to be noticed.

Sounds of an argument filtered through the closed doors. He couldn’t make out the words. He peered out between two of the heavy chestnut beams. In a few minutes, he heard a door slam and then, silence. He stayed crouched behind the logs. Not yet, wait. Lydell walked out through the back door, took two or three steps in his direction, and looked right and left. He carried something heavy in his hand. Henry squinted through the gap in the logs. As Lydell turned to reenter the house, Henry saw the glint of sunlight on metal. Lydell carried a double barreled shotgun. Henry scuttled backward, slipped behind the shed, and then into the woods. He reckoned he was done working for Mr. Jonathan Lydell forever.

***

Sam, true to her word, went to work early. Somewhere in all those papers, books, reports, and guesses, she believed she would find the answer to the murder of Anton Grotz. She held that view as an act of faith; the practical side of her nature was near despair. TMI. Too much information, too few connections. What did Karl say? They needed some numbers to show them how to connect the dots. She spread the papers, the faxes from New Jersey, and the library books on one desk. The photographs, evidence technician’s reports, ballistics, and coroner’s reports went on another.

Earlier, she thought she had a lead from the papers accumulated by Grotz. She needed to go back to it and think it through once more. The facsimile of the
Staunton Spectator
caught her eye and she read it, frowned, and reread it. She picked up the stack of pictures taken of the stranger room. She held one up and studied it myopically, dropped it, and rummaged through the materials for the CD with the pictures stored on it.

“Be right back,” she said to no one in particular, and headed to her office. Her computer was already booted up and she slid the disc into its D drive. She had a moderately sophisticated photo processing program, so it was an easy matter to find the picture that had caught her attention and bring it up on her screen. She selected a portion and enlarged it. There was no doubt. The traveler’s trunk had a brass plate fastened to it, and the plate had elaborately engraved initials etched into its surface—F.B.

She reread the
Staunton Spectator
once more;
The traveler is reported to have been a Mister Franklin Brian of undetermined address. He had no baggage and…

No baggage…F.B., Franklin Brian. It had to be. Of course the lines of communication would have been unreliable during that time, what with Union raids. Of course, they might have misunderstood. But suppose they weren’t. Suppose that trunk had belonged to Franklin Brian. What did it contain that the original Jonathan Lydell felt compelled to keep it? And who was Franklin Brian? Why was he murdered? Sam sat down and whistled.

“I’ll bet a week’s pay that if we could figure that out we’d have the rest.”

“What?” Rita said. “Figure what out?”

“Who would I talk to about the Civil War around here?”

“The War of Northern Aggression, you mean.”

“Whatever. Gracious, you’d think in over a century and a half you could settle on a name. Anyway, this is a today murder, but its roots go back to that time, and I don’t have time to be choosey with my words. Sorry.”

Ike walked in the door and looked at the display of material scattered across the table. “Who wants to know about the war?”

“I do. I think the two murders are linked somehow.” Sam was almost dancing in excitement.

“Well, the best source, locally, excluding Jonathan Lydell, would be Dr. Leon Weitz at the college. You remember him?”

“Yes, I do. Look, I’m not on duty yet so I’m going to drive up to the college and see him. You have anything you want to know while I’m there?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But if I’m right, you’ll need to do some heavy duty research on the Lydells.”

“I will? Okay, get me his books from the library.”

“Already got’em. I’m off.”

Ike watched her leave. “What’s she up to, Rita?”

“Beats me. She spread all that stuff all over the place, ran back to her office and then…well you heard the rest. She thinks the old Lydell murder back in the day is, like, connected to the new one.”

“Hmmm…Any news from Essie?”

“Not today. Is this forced leave you have her on got an end point? My husband is getting antsy with my new hours.”

“Sorry, Rita. Tell him it won’t be much longer.”

***

Ike picked up the two coroner’s reports and the results of the ballistics test from the spread Sam had created. He settled in his office with a cup of lukewarm coffee and opened them one at a time. The ballistics confirmed that the weapon used in the shooting was the Webley they had—presumably Lydell’s. The coroner’s report on Grotz was straight forward. He’d been shot three times in the back and once in the forehead. Three bullets had been retrieved and matched those from the Webley. The coroner’s report on Martha Marie Lydell Winslow told a different story. There were only slight traces of alcohol in her system. Her blood alcohol was well below the DUI limit. But there were indications of cocaine use, the presence of a few petechial hemorrhages in the eyes, face, and neck area, and four small and one larger bruise on her back. He hadn’t expected any surprises. It appeared he was wrong.

Ike sat back and studied the reports. Lydell testified his daughter was drunk. The body reeked of whiskey. But no trace? And cocaine? If she wasn’t drunk…how much cocaine? He read again. Not enough of either to affect her motor abilities. She could navigate. So why did she fall down the stairs? What about the bruises? She did tumble. Still…Henry Sutherlin said he heard Lydell and his daughter arguing.

Why? The case is full of whys. Never mind how the murder was done…it’s the whys. Someone shot Grotz who then went to the trouble to make it look like a locked room mystery. Martha Marie, for no reason at all, launches herself down the stairs. If we figure this one out, Ike muttered, I’ll have earned my pension.

He would have to look up petechial hemorrhages.

Chapter 29

Karl completed a circuit of the town’s west sector. The least interesting part of being a deputy, he believed, was patrol. Picketsville lacked the problems that characterized big cities. Patrolling the streets involved scraping up a drunk or two on the weekends, breaking up a kegger in Craddock’s woods, and handing out a few speeding tickets. Not much in the way of excitement. On the upside, it gave him time to think. He had Sam on his mind lately. Sam and what Ike had said about “One T Picketsville.” The whole concept of the town’s antediluvian, middle-class morals boggled his mind. But Ike wasn’t one to dance around facts. If he said the townsfolk thought his relationship was suspect, he was probably right. Karl’s problem revolved around whether he cared enough to change his living arrangements, and if so, how and when.

One complete circuit done. He nosed into a parking spot at the Seven-Eleven and exited. Time for coffee and, stereotype or not, a donut. Yuri, the manager, greeted him as usual, that is to say, effusively, and also, as usual, insisting there’d be no charge. They had a running disagreement about paying for donuts and coffee. Yuri maintained it was a custom in his country—Karl wasn’t sure where that was, he guessed one of the former soviets—that people showed their appreciation to the
polizei
for their services. Karl, in turn, accused Yuri of offering him a bribe and declared he might have to arrest him if he didn’t accept the money. The argument would go on until Karl filled his cup, selected the donut with the heaviest coating of glaze, and paid. Yuri would roll his eyes, shake his head, and that would be it until the next time Karl came in.

His transaction complete, he exited the store, Yuri’s disappointment trailing after him. He put the cup and donut on the roof of the car while he opened the driver’s side door. He had it halfway open when a blue Chevy Malibu roared past, doing at least twenty miles over the limit. He only caught a glimpse of the driver but could not mistake either the car or the driver’s profile. A determined Essie Falco, eyes fixed on the road, had the car floored and headed out the Covington Road. Karl slid behind the wheel, backed up, and sped after her. He glanced in the rear view mirror just in time to see his coffee and donut sail off the roof and into the road behind him.

***

Rita fumbled with the send button and repeated her call. She frowned and called Ike on the intercom.

“Ike, I can’t reach Billy Sutherlin. He’s supposed to be out patrolling the east sector and I’ve had a call from someone reporting a possible prowler.”

Ike fiddled with the intercom and took a stab at the buttons. He hit the right one.

“A prowler at nine in the morning?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Who said?”

“A woman named Mavis Bowers. Do you know her?”

“Sort of. She was one of the ladies at the church when we had that murder last fall. She’s been a little spooked ever since. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. But what’s up with Billy?”

“I’m calling, but he’s not answering. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he has his radio turned off.”

“You can tell?”

“Well, I don’t know, maybe. Back before you were sheriff, the guys would do that…turn off their radios so they wouldn’t have to answer a call. It was usually when they were up to no good. Anyway, I had a feeling that I could tell. It was the way the call would sound from this end. See, when the radio’s on, there is this, like, echo sort of sound. But when they’re off, you don’t hear it.”

“How?”

“Okay. You set all the radios on a common frequency and then we have a different, alternate one for each set that allows us to talk to a single person without cluttering up the common one, right? Billy didn’t answer on the general so I tried his alternate. That’s when I figured he’s off the air.”

“Show me.”

“Okay, so your radio is on, right?”

“Yes.”

“Put it on the alternate frequency, leave it on your desk, and come out here.”

Ike unclipped his radio, switched to the alternate channel, placed the set on the only clear spot on his desk, and walked over to the dispatch desk. Rita called him on his frequency. Sure enough, there was a hint of an over-voice. At Rita’s direction, he returned to his office and turned the set off and returned. She called him again. The difference was very slight. The echo had disappeared. Rita had been at this for years and to her ear, it was obvious.

“Billy knows better than to turn off his radio. What’s he thinking? Keep trying, and see if you can raise Karl.”

“Roger that.”

“And keep trying to find Essie, too. Something is not right here. Did Billy know about the radio off thing?”

“We talked about it once but I don’t know if he knows or not.”

“Okay. I’ll drive out and see Mavis Bowers. Keep trying.”

***

Karl watched as a silver Chrysler flattened his mid-morning snack and sent the coffee cup skittering across the road. He tried to catch Essie but she had the Chevy flat out. For a split second he thought to use the siren but something, instinct maybe, kept his finger off the toggle switch. After all, it was Essie and whatever she had in mind, he felt pretty sure she did not want company. The way she was pushing her car convinced him she would be better served if she did. He managed to keep her in sight out the Covington Road, past Craddock’s Woods. He braked abruptly when he saw her tail lights brighten. She turned right and bounced into the state park. Karl slowed to a crawl and then pulled into a copse of maples and got out. He’d follow on foot. Something was not right. His radio crackled and he quickly shut it off.

***

“Ike. Are you there?”

“I hear you, Rita. Did you find Billy?”

“No, still no answer. So, I called Karl like you said, and he didn’t answer either, so I tried his alternate and I swear, his set is off, too.”

“What was his last location?”

“His latest twenty was the Seven-Eleven out near the Covington Road. But that was fifteen minutes ago.”

“What’s going on here? Did you raise Essie?”

“I got through to her sister’s place. She wasn’t there. Her niece answered the phone. She said Essie had a call from her boyfriend and took off in a hurry.”

“Her boyfriend?”

“She meant Billy.”

“What in the world is going on? Listen, you get hold of Mavis Bowers and tell her we have an emergency and we’ll check out her prowler later. Tell her we’re sorry.”

“No need, Ike. She called back a few minutes ago and said not to bother, it was just the gas man.”

“Sheesh. Okay, Rita, I’m heading out to the Seven-Eleven to track Karl. You keep after Billy.”

“Ten-four, Ike.”

This is not good.

Chapter 30

Jonathan Lydell had a problem. Martha Marie indicated she’d seen the documents but hadn’t mentioned where she’d put them. She had slipped three of them under the blotter but the others…the important ones…were nowhere to be found. Henry said she often read out in the yard. She hid things in the shed. He’d turned it upside down. Aside from boxes of his books and a half empty wine bottle, he’d found nothing. He didn’t think Schwartz, or any of his Keystone Cops, would be back, but he hated loose ends. And then there was the business with that odious LeBrun person. He wanted money. Everybody wanted money. Who did they think they were dealing with?

Cocaine? LeBrun expected him to pay for Martha Marie’s drugs. He had no idea she used cocaine. Young people did nowadays, but where did she get the money to pay for them in the first place? He was sure the alimony she received went into her bank account but, you never knew. And who connected her to that foul-mouthed person? He drummed his fingers on the desk top and absently turned the blotter aside as if he might find his missing documents under it after all. Did he dare call the sheriff about LeBrun? Where might that lead? He needed to close some things down. First he’d bring Martha Marie home and make arrangements with Unger’s Funeral parlor. Then there was the problem with the pistol. That might be difficult to explain. Police were so suspicious. They never seemed willing to accept a simple explanation for a thing, were always looking for something darker. None of this would be happening if society had maintained a sense of respect for families and history. A Lydell should not be subject to the sort of treatment by the local constabulary he received.

Where could those papers be? His thoughts had become increasingly angry and now his fingers beat a noisy tattoo on the desk. His face reddened. Finally, he slapped the desk and cursed. Flossie Picket, dust cloth in hand, stopped and turned.

“You say something, Mister Lydell?”

“What? Were you snooping? I won’t have servants snooping and eavesdropping, you hear?”

“You keep shouting at me for no reason and you won’t have no servants, period.”

“What’s that you say?”

“You heard me. I took this job on because I thought you needed some help bad after your other cleaner got sick and had to quit. Now I see she maybe wasn’t sick at all.”

“That will be all. You are dismissed as of this moment.”

“That’s good with me, Mist’ Lydell, but you owe me for two weeks now. You didn’t leave no money last Friday like usual. And I expect cash money this time.”

“Of all the effrontery. You will be paid in good time and now you will vacate the premises.”

“Not without my one-hundred-fifty dollars, I won’t.”

“You will or I shall call the police.”

“Now that would be good. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to have a reason to get another look-see around here. You know my son? He works for the sheriff.”

“Are you threatening me, woman?”

“I’m asking you to pay me my wages. That’s all. You the one brought up police.”

Lydell had risen from his chair and now, as if deflated, sat down again. Lights flashed behind his eyes. He was only minutes away from a migraine. He fumbled in his wallet and took out one hundred and fifteen dollars in crumpled tens, fives, and ones.

“That’s all you get. You didn’t give me a full day today.”

Flossie Picket had come into the room in the first place to tell him what she’d found tucked under the bolster in the third floor bedroom. Now she stared at the angry old man and, with a pitying look that accelerated the onset of his migraine, scooped up the money and stalked out the door.

***

Somewhere on his journey from corrupt sheriff’s deputy to crystal meth addict, George LeBrun had changed from a man considered to be clever but mean, to just plain mean. What the chemicals had done to his central nervous system would be the subject for a toxicologist at some future time, but now sheer meanness drove him.

Bushwhacking Billy Sutherlin had been easy…too easy. In his day, George thought, you had to get up pretty early in the morning to trap a deputy with a phony call. Billy fell right into it. Now that deputy sat in the driver’s seat of his own cruiser, with a sawed off twelve-gauge shotgun duct-tapped to his neck.

“Don’t even think about doing anything stupid, Sutherlin. My finger is on this here trigger and it’s real touchy. Hell, I might blow your head off and not even mean too. That’s how quick this trigger is.” George began to giggle. “Don’t you think that’s funny Billy? Laugh, Billy.”

Billy remained stone faced.

“You want me to do it now, boy?”

“You won’t, LeBrun.”

“I won’t? Why, won’t?”

“You have something else up your sleeve. You want Essie for some reason, and you won’t do anything ’til she gets here.”

“Well, you ain’t as dumb as I figured. Yep, we’ll wait.”

“Why’d you have me call her?”

“She ratted me out. My cousin, Daryll, is in your jail because of her. My business is up in flames, you might say, and she’s gonna pay.”

“You won’t get away with it. Sooner or later, you’re going down.”

“Who’s gonna do that? Not you, Billy. You’re toast. Sheriff Ikey? Not likely. He’ll want to, but prove it was me way out here in the park that done it? No way. And not that big, black…here she comes.”

Essie Falco braked and jumped out. George LeBrun punched Billy in the ribs.

“Okay, Sutherlin, slide out slow and easy. Make sure she sees the mess you got yourself in.”

Essie watched Billy open the door and took another step forward.

“Billy, why’d you call? You sounded like you were in trouble and—” She caught sight of LeBrun and the shotgun at the same time. “Oh.”

“You shouldn’t have come, Essie. I tried to warn you, sort of, but…”

“You shouldn’t have come, Essie.” LeBrun mimicked Billy. “Ooo, now I’ve got you both.”

Essie paled. “I didn’t understand. You said it’s about the…I didn’t understand.”

“Poor Baby. She didn’t understand you, Billy, you dumb suck.”

“What do you want, George?” Essie moved slightly to her left.

“Want? Well, first off, I’m going to have to blow your lover boy away so’s I can free this gun. Then I’m aiming to send you to wherever traitor women go when they’re found out.”

“What do you mean, traitor? I never—”

“Don’t get smart with me. You sold me out to that sheriff buddy of yours and Daryll’s in jail. You done it.” Billy had moved to his left at the same time. “You hold still.” Billy stopped. LeBrun’s eyes swept over Essie. He smiled.

“Seems a shame to waste all that,” Lebrun said. He licked his lips and stared at Essie’s chest. “Ought to have me a taste first.”

Essie stared back. She seemed to consider her options, measured LeBrun’s mental state, glanced past him into the woods behind him, and then said, “What’s stopping you?”

LeBrun had not figured on that response. She began to unbutton her blouse.

“Don’t do it,” Billy said and stepped to his left again.

“Shut up, Sutherlin. You’ve been there a hundred times. I been thinking about this woman for years. Come on, Sweetheart, skin out for Georgie.”

“Not here, George. In the trees. Someone might see us from the road.”

“Nobody drives out here this time of day.” As he said the words, a pickup whooshed by. “Okay. Back up slow, Billy. Essie, you just keep doing what you’re doing. We’re moving into the woods.”

Essie pulled her blouse away from her slacks. And stepped forward. They had ten yards to cover to the seclusion of the woods. The woods and LeBrun’s lust were the only thing between her and a shotgun blast in the face.