A Will To Murder (22 page)

“Not self-defense?”

“It was the knife that tipped the jury away from that argument.  The other guy wasn’t armed.”

“Oh.  I guess I can see why Katherine would try to protect him, if she thought he was only defending himself.”

“But why did he have the knife in the first place?  Why enter the bar with it?  Had Heydrick quarreled with that guy earlier?  The court record didn’t say.  If that CD case is in his shed, he’s my main suspect.  What about that bottle of dandelion wine?”

“Vanished.”  He related Sheila’s story.  “I’d swear Rose didn’t poison it, though.”

“Eric.  James disinherited her.  Motive to kill him.  If she inherits from Katherine, she has a motive to kill her aunt.  And Bert’s a repairman, so he could have installed that CD player.”  

“I really don’t think it was her.”

“I haven’t met her, so I don’t know what she’s like.”  Wendy shrugged and toyed with her phone cord.  “Logically, she has to be on the list.”

“So’s Armagnac and the housekeeper.”  He told her why James had disinherited his son.  

“Okay, they’re both on, too.”

“So’s everybody else,” he reminded her, “if everyone’s inheriting from Katherine.”

“God,” Wendy groaned.  “I assume we can cross off Bradley,” she added irritably.

“You sound upset.”  

“I am!  This is
maddening
.  Usually you have fewer suspects in a murder case.  God!  Now, did you find out who knew that Katherine was going to leave plenty of bequests?”

“It seems everyone did.  Sheila said the staff knew.  I suppose all the relatives did too, except maybe Lance and Colette.”  

“That doesn’t help.  Why the hell was Colette killed?” Wendy added distractedly.  “See if you can find that scythe, then you and Bradley move to a hotel.  You two need to look after your own safety.”  

“I’ll talk to Bradley about it.  Should we go to the police?  I don’t know why they haven’t done anything.”

“Try them.  It looks like they need a push.”  

After they hung up, Wendy regarded the tape machine that was running on her kitchen counter.  It had been recording the conversation, just as it had taped all her conversations with Eric.  She shut it off, glanced at her futon, and shook her head sadly at it.

“Do you see a sign that says Sheriff’s Department?” asked Eric.  He and Bradley had driven into Chichiteaux.

“Not yet.  You know, I’m wondering if those old ladies at the church might have been right about a few things,” Smith admitted.  Eric had told his friend about the iron harpies and added Wendy’s information, without mentioning Wendy’s name.  

“You’ve been doing a lot of research.”

“I’ve had help.  I’ll tell you about it later.”  This reminded Eric that he’d forgotten to ask Wendy whether she’d verified any of the old ladies’ stories.  He would have to call her again.  

“There’s the sign next to the courthouse,” said Bradley.  “See the flags?”

“Considering how tourist-colonial this town is, I'm surprised it doesn't say ‘Ye Olde Coppe Shoppe.' God, this is going to be weird.”

They had to push a buzzer to enter the building, and a police officer let them in.  He was sitting shrouded in a strange blue light at the front desk.  

“We need to talk to someone about the recent deaths at Rollingwood.  Bradley, here, is a member of the family,”  Eric said apologetically.

The cop’s face was unreadable, but Eric sensed he was very interested in their words.  He made a call and told them they could talk to Detective Escott.  They were led through a door, down a short hallway, and into a room past a series of desks.  The walls around them were peach and the carpets lime, as if some decorator thought a sheriff’s department ought to be perky, but the sight of officers with guns destroyed this effect.

They were led to the desk of a grey-haired, paunchy detective who looked as though he’d chased his last criminal about forty years ago.  His desk was clean except for the wrapper of his lunch sandwich, strewn with lettuce slivers.  Escott swiped the remains into the trash when he saw the two men enter, then shook hands with them.  

“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen.  I’m the detective investigating these deaths at Rollingwood.”  He nodded them towards a pair of chairs and asked, “So, which of you is the relative?”

“Me.  I'm Bradley Smith, James Boyle’s grandson.”

Escott looked at the dyed blonde hair, polished leather boots, garish jacket, and the rubber dragon, and Maxwell could tell the detective was thinking, You're old James’ grandson?  How in God's name did that happen?

“And you're--”

“Eric Maxwell.  I'm a friend who drove him to his grandfather’s funeral, since Bradley doesn't have a car.  About these deaths--we think these were murders.”

“Why?”

Eric told the detective about the CD case appearing, disappearing, then reappearing inside the shed.  He was alarmed to note that Escott was not bothering to write anything down.  

“And the ostrich,” Bradley prompted.  “Tell him about Woofie.”

Eric winced.  He wished he didn't have to mention Woofie.  It sounded too ridiculous.  As he explained, the detective seemed to be struggling not to smile.  Eric  also told him about the handfork and scythe.

“Have you personally seen any of these things?”

“Uh, no,” Eric admitted.  Bradley too, shook his head.

“So it's the word of a child that these things exist.”  Escott leaned back in his chair and sighed.  “Well, Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Smith, it sounds too convenient to me.  I'm sure this Arthur is a perfectly decent boy, however.”

“But hey, three deaths?” Bradley exclaimed.

Eric was regretting mentioning Woofie at all.  The ostrich seemed to have weakened their case.

“Let me be frank, Mr. Smith.  Yes, there is some concern, but James Boyle--excuse me,” said Escott as he opened a desk drawer.  The detective spent a few minutes searching for the file he wanted and seemed to have forgotten where he’d put it.  “Ah, here it is.”  He opened the file and began to read silently to himself for a moment, as if refreshing his memory.  “James Boyle did indeed die of a heart attack, gentlemen.  His previous heart attack is noted in his medical records, and he had very high blood pressure.  I suppose you know he was a rather choleric man.  His doctor assured us that what Mr. Boyle experienced in that car could definitely have killed him, considering his personality.  Yet we have no evidence that murder was the intention.  Frankly, gentlemen, when you want to kill a man, you use a more straightforward method.  Shooting, or poisoning, or something of that sort.  James Boyle could easily have survived that episode in the car.  That's why we think it was an irresponsible practical joke, not a murder attempt.  As for Katherine Boyle, we know she had heart disease and had been under a lot of stress.  We called Rollingwood, and a certain member of the household (I won't mention who) told us a terrible scene had taken place not long before Ms. Boyle died.  Our source claimed that Ms. Boyle, her nephew, and niece were involved in a confrontation about an employee at Rollingwood, and that Ms. Boyle experienced heart pains afterwards.  I'm willing to bet that she had a small coronary right there, and sadly, didn't think she needed to go to the hospital.  She seems to have died of another coronary not long after.”

“But,” Eric protested, “I've heard that no autopsy was performed in either case, and that your local mortician, who’s also your coroner, is terrible.”  

At this, Escott smiled outright.  “Well, Douthit’s Douthit.  He's definitely a character.  But we still have nothing solid to make us suspicious of the deaths of James or Katherine Boyle.”

“What about Colette!” Bradley demanded.

The detective’s face became somber.  “I'll be honest with you.  Some of us here are uneasy about her death.  But we did send one of our guys over to Douthit's--I suppose you know Douthit actually did perform an autopsy on her--and our officer reported that Douthit found her airways were clogged shut, swollen and filled with vomit and mucous.  Plenty of mucous was also in her lungs.  Our officer saw this himself.  Having bronchitis and asthma simultaneously was a fatal combination for her.  She also had a strong odor of cigarettes on her clothing.”  Escott cleared his throat delicately.  “It appears Colette's own behavior contributed to her death.”

“But she didn't have asthma, according to her brother,” said Maxwell, wondering how many more times he was going to use the word ‘but’ in this conversation.

“A family member said Colette had complained that dust bothered her.  Is this true?”

Eric admitted it was.

“So there you have it, gentlemen.  I understand your concern, but there appears to be a natural explanation for all three.”

“Woofie was murdered too!” said Bradley indignantly.

Again, the detective seemed to be trying to hide a smile.  “I believe the vet, Dr. Anderson, thought that a wolf had attacked the ostrich.  I’m inclined to trust his judgment, since he’s more of an animal expert than the three of us are.  Still, I understand your concern.”

In two minutes, both men were back out on the street.  “Well, that was a waste of time,” said Eric acidly.  

“He’s an idiot.  We
know
they were murdered.”

The other shook his head irritably.  “We need some proof.  Let’s go get that goddamn scythe.”

Night had arrived before the two men found the turnoff to Rollingwood farm.  Eric turned on his flashlight as they stepped out of the Honda into the rutted mud before the gate.  Bradley had taken off his rings and rubber dragon.  The gate was locked.

“Let’s climb over the fence,” Smith suggested.

“This is barbed wire, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Don’t you have wire cutters?”

“I do not,” replied his friend in a voice of deep sarcasm, “usually carry such tools about with me.”

“Well, don’t be a bitch about it.  I’ll hold the wire down for you and shine the light so you can see.”  Bradley put the end of the flashlight between his teeth.

Eric teetered on the wire, praying the crotch of his jeans would not be ripped, and swung his leg over.  Then he took the flashlight from Bradley and held the wire for his friend.  After Smith was across, Eric scanned the grounds with the flashlight.  The beam moved jerkily, courtesy of his nerves.  They could see a few sheep in the distance.

“There’s the barn, and the door’s open,” said Bradley.

“Let’s get it then, before this light attracts somebody.”

The ominous black doorway halted them, and Eric took a deep, gulping breath.  A sound of “Aaaaauuuugghhhh!” exploded by his ear.  The reporter flew upwards, then turned a shaking flashlight beam on his friend.  “What the hell!?”

He could just make out Bradley’s grimacing face.  “A sheep stepped on my foot!” Smith shouted, wiggling his sore appendage.  A bleating sound was moving rapidly away.  Bradley had reproved the erring animal with a kick.  

“Is that all?!  Jesus Christ!  Let’s get inside the barn before the whole countryside realizes we’re here.”

“Damn, those things are vicious,” said Smith, staring after the sheep.  

They entered the barn cautiously, and the flashlight was pointed into every niche.  “Where is it?  A scythe shouldn’t be hard to find,” muttered Maxwell.

“It could be hidden in a corner.”

“But the blade on it should keep it from vanishing completely; it won’t disappear into a 45-degree angle.”  Remembering Arthur’s description, Eric stepped forward and shifted aside some straw.

“What’s that?” Smith asked.

“It looks like dried blood.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Neither spoke for a moment.

“So Arthur was telling the truth,” said Bradley.  “A scythe must have been hanging above here.  Someone
did
steal it.  Let’s scrape up some of this blood and take it in for analysis.”

“I don’t think we should,” replied Eric, after pondering a bit.  “For one thing, the thief must not know the puddle is here, or he would have cleaned it up.  It’s almost completely covered by this straw.  I’m surprised Arthur noticed it.”

“But won’t the thief remember the floor later?  I still think we should scrape up some blood.”

“It won’t be useful as evidence if we do.  We can’t just show up with ostrich blood.  It has to be collected by the police and witnessed and photographed to prove it was here in the first place.”

“Well, we’ve witnessed it.  Will that help?”

Maxwell shook his head uncertainly.  “I’ll tell Wendy we saw it.  Unfortunately, Escott may claim this blood stain is just an accidental transfer from the vet.  
Damn
that missing scythe.”

“Well, put the straw back over the spot so no one sees it.”

After they replaced the straw, they left the barn, discouraged.  Near the gate they were startled by a howl, long and beautifully wolf-like.

“Dammit, the sheep aren’t anywhere near us!  Would you STOP THAT?”

“But that wasn’t me.”

They looked at each other in the halogen beam.  “Maybe that vet did know what he was talking about,” said Bradley.

A second later both men were dashing for the fence, and they scratched themselves thoroughly trying to get over the wire.  “Don’t climb in the car yet,” Eric gasped, “I don’t want blood all over my upholstery.  Let me get some paper towels out of the trunk so we can blot ourselves.”

The howl came again.  It was closer this time.

“We need to tell somebody about that wolf or it’ll kill some of those sheep,” said Bradley.

“All right, all right, we’ll call the sheriff.  He can notify the Boyles and we’ll stay anonymous that way.”

A faint motion came from the dark woods behind Bradley, right next to the highway.  Both men went still.  They heard quick breathing, like a dog’s pants.  

“Heh,” said Bradley with a nervous laugh, “that sounds so close you’d think it was on our side of the fence.”  

They looked at each other and threw themselves inside the car.  Maxwell’s tires were spraying mud over the gate before Bradley could shut his door.  

“A goddamned wolf!  We made utter
fools
out of ourselves at the sheriff’s!” Eric moaned.