Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring (8 page)

“Of course it was important. Congratulations,” Stone said. “That’s quite an accomplishment for Nicholas.”

“Yes, we’re very proud of him,” Harold said, his expression softening momentarily as he thought about his grandson. “But as far as Bonnie is concerned, I’d suggest you two come back tomorrow morning. She’s in no condition to answer questions right now, but she’s nearly always more lucid and clear-minded in the mornings. I just don’t have the answers to give you. I’ve only picked up pieces of Bonnie’s story since I returned home this morning. I’ve been reluctant to ask her questions and confuse her even more. I got most of my information from the detectives who stopped by here earlier. I should think one visit from the investigators today would have been sufficient.”

We thanked him for his time and promised to return at nine o’clock the next morning. He agreed. I could tell he felt he had no choice in the matter, or he’d have never let us cross his threshold again. We hadn’t meant to infer we were official investigators. I really didn’t want to cross that line again, but if it helped us get information from the Bloomingfields I wasn’t going to correct Harold. As we stepped out onto their front porch, he shut the door rather firmly and noisily behind us. “Good riddance,” I was sure he was saying on the other side of the door.

On the way home to the inn, which was only about two or three minutes from the Bloomingfields, Stone and I discussed his change in attitude. “I’m not surprised,” Stone said. “I’d become upset if anyone implied I didn’t take good care of you, and those two have probably been married over fifty years. I believe him when he said he’d never have left Bonnie to her own devices had he known something like the pastor’s murder was going to involve his wife. I’m sure in most instances he’d feel comfortable in leaving her home alone for a short amount of time, or he’d have never made the trip to Knob Noster, not even for the sake of his grandson.”

I wasn’t convinced, but I kept my opinions to myself. Was he really out of town, or could he have had a feud with his neighbor and somehow been involved in Steiner’s death? Bonnie probably wouldn’t remember if he was home at the time or not. Feuds among neighbors were a common occurrence, even in the best of neighborhoods. The chances of Harold Bloomingfield being involved in the pastor’s death were slim, but I had to make sure I didn’t overlook any possibilities. I had a bad habit of judging everyone to be guilty until proven innocent. But so far that theory had worked out well for me.

* * *

Wendy called as I was fixing dinner that evening after we’d returned from the Bloomingfields. She was just checking in, and making small talk about Stone’s nephew, Andy. He’d arrived with the U-Haul and was in the process of moving into his new ranch property. Being a rancher was an entirely new endeavor for Andy, having been a private charter pilot since earning a pilot’s license right out of college.

In early June, he’d be taking a commercial flight to Myrtle Beach and flying his own five-passenger plane back to a nearby municipal airport where he’d rented a hangar. His Cessna 206 was a single engine aircraft, with fixed landing gear, and Andy kept it in excellent condition. He’d come to our rescue with his airplane when we were back on the east coast the previous year. He was a top-notch pilot, and I’d felt safe in the back seat of his plane.

I knew he’d missed his Uncle Stone after Stone moved to Kansas from South Carolina. I also realized he and Wendy had become closer in the last year. In fact, although Wendy hadn’t said as much, I could tell she’d fallen in love with him. Andy had come to Rockdale on several occasions to visit, and he and Wendy spoke on the phone nearly every day. Wendy couldn’t have been any happier when she’d learned of his decision to move to the Kansas City area. The 640-acre ranch Andy had purchased was located just outside the city limits of Atchison, Kansas, about a half-hour southwest of Rockdale.

I was very fond of Stone’s nephew, the son of his older brother, Sterling. Sterling was a commercial pilot, and Andy had followed in his father’s footsteps. Andy obviously enjoyed flying, and I wondered if he’d take to ranching with the same enthusiasm. He suddenly found himself with hogs, cattle, horses, chickens, and even a couple of ornery goats, to feed and take care of on a daily basis. I hoped he could easily adjust to the new lifestyle. It would be like me going from an assistant librarian to a rodeo clown overnight.

I thought about telling Wendy about Stone’s decision to stand by me as we did a little prying into the circumstances of Steiner’s death. I decided against it, however. I really wasn’t in the mood for the lengthy and emotional lecture I was guaranteed to get from my annoyingly over-protective daughter. The guests would be down for supper shortly, anyway. I had a pot roast I needed to take out of the oven, and potatoes that weren’t going to mash themselves.

* * *

“Good morning, Harold. How are you this morning?” Stone asked Mr. Bloomingfield as we stood on his porch at exactly nine o’clock the next morning. Stone hadn’t been quite as enthusiastic about revisiting Harold and Bonnie as I had, but I was able to convince him to come along. I think he was afraid of the bone-chilling interrogation I was apt to conduct if I visited the Bloomingfields on my own. He knew we’d already gotten off on the wrong foot with Harold.

“I’m fine,” Harold said, in a rather stilted voice. “Bonnie is much more cognizant this morning too. Come on in, folks. It’s nice to see you again.”

He didn’t actually look happy to see us, but he opened the door to allow us into his home. Bonnie sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in her hand.

“Coffee?” Harold asked. Stone declined, but I nodded enthusiastically. If there was one thing I rarely turned down, it was a cup of coffee, and I could see a nearly full carafe of already brewed coffee on the counter. If I was stranded on a deserted island and could only pick three items to have with me, coffee would be one of them.

“Good morning, Bonnie,” I said, as I reached over to pat her left hand, which was resting on the table. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine,” she said. “Who are you two again?”

I knew she didn’t recall our visit from the day before, so I introduced Stone and me and informed her we were going to ask her a few questions involving the murder of Pastor Steiner. She seemed to understand what I was telling her. I gave her a couple of minutes to pour some coffee, and then asked, “Can you run through, for us, just what happened that morning you found the deceased pastor?”

“Well, you see, I couldn’t sleep the night before. I kept waking up and was tired of tossing and turning. So I got up and went into the living room to watch TV. An old movie,
The Day After,
was on and I didn’t remember having ever seen it before. It was about the devastation in Lawrence, Kansas, the day following a nuclear bomb being dropped on the vicinity. I found it interesting, of course, since Lawrence is so near to us here in Rockdale.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “It’s an interesting movie. I saw the film years ago, in the early eighties. If I remember right, one of my favorite actors, John Lithgow, was in it.”

“Yes, and Jason Robards portrayed a doctor in the movie,” Bonnie said. I realized she was indeed very lucid and felt confident we’d get a good accounting of the way the events had unfolded the morning of the murder. I could understand now why Harold felt comfortable leaving her home alone while he traveled out of town to make a short visit with their daughter and grandson.

“Anyway,” she continued, “soon after the movie had finished, I went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee when I looked out my kitchen window. I noticed Mr. Steiner’s back door was wide open, which was odd, but I really didn’t give it much thought. I often see him head out on his morning run, but didn’t see him leave his house this time as I drank my coffee in front of the large plate-glass window in the living room. Later on that morning, after I fixed myself a late breakfast and was washing the dishes at about eleven-forty-five, I looked out the kitchen window again and noticed Mr. Steiner’s door was still open. His newspaper was still in the driveway, which was extremely odd, since I often see him retrieving his paper at about seven. When I looked back at his house and saw that he hadn’t opened up the blinds over his kitchen sink, I got really concerned and decided to go over and check on him.”

Bonnie stopped to take a couple of sips of coffee, and wipe her mouth with a napkin. So far her story was consistent with the report she’d given the detectives. I was so relieved she was having a good day and seemed to be experiencing no ill effects of the Alzheimer’s she was cursed with. She gazed off to a spot to the left of the kitchen table, which put her staring approximately at the trashcan for several long seconds, before Harold nudged her. He hadn’t said a word since letting us into the house.

“Bonnie?” I asked. She was either reflecting back on the horrific event or gathering her thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Go on with your story,” I prompted her.

“Oh, yes. Now what was I saying?”

“You were telling us how you decided to go over and check on Mr. Steiner.”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “As you know, I found him dead, lying flat on the floor, stretched out on his back. I could tell he wasn’t breathing so I checked for a pulse and found none. He was quite pale and stiff and I knew it was too late to resuscitate him, so I called that number you call in an emergency. What’s that number again?”

“Nine-one-one,” I reminded her.

“Yes, of course, I called nine-one-one.”

“And what else do you recall? Did anything seem out of place? Any obvious signs of a struggle, chairs overturned, broken dishes, or anything like that? Maybe a fireplace poker, or a cast iron frying pan lying on the floor, or anything else that could have been used to strike him on the back of the head?”

“Not that I recall, but I really wasn’t aware at the time he’d been murdered, so I wasn’t looking for any signs of Mr. Steiner having been assaulted. I just assumed he’d suffered a massive coronary, or something of that nature. And besides that, I’m sure I’ve already told the police department everything I can remember.”

“I’m sure you have, Bonnie, but you might want to take notes as you think back and remember something, even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant, detail. Then you’ll have the information to turn over to the police, or to Stone and me, if you prefer,” I said. “Unfortunately, the person who calls for help is often considered a prime suspect until proven otherwise.”

Bonnie looked alarmed, and Harold looked angry. I’d ticked him off again without even trying. Bonnie went back to staring at the trashcan, with her lower lip quivering slightly. I hadn’t really meant to upset either of them, but I sometimes spoke without giving much thought to what I was saying. Okay, I
often
spoke without giving my words much thought.

Without turning to look at me, Bonnie, asked, “Do the police think I killed Thurman?”

“No, of course not,” Stone said, giving me a look of annoyance. Jeez, I’d managed to piss off everyone in the room with just a few short words. Stone tried to ease the anxiety my words had caused both of the Bloomingfields. “I’m sure you’ve already been cleared of any suspicion in the murder. I’m sure the investigators no longer view you as a suspect.”

Stone’s words seem to have an even bigger effect on the Bloomingfields than my own had. Now Stone looked annoyed at himself for the way he’d phrased his statement to Bonnie. They were meant to be words of comfort, I knew, but had obviously had the opposite effect.

“Oh, my Lord,” Bonnie said. It was evident we’d triggered the effects of Alzheimer’s in Bonnie’s mind. “Did I murder Mr. Steiner? I really think I must have. I don’t remember it, but I have these forgetful spells, you see. Oh, my goodness! What have I done? I didn’t mean to kill the pastor. How could I do such a terrible thing? What’s going to happen to me now?”

Bonnie began to weep, and we left Harold to deal with her after we were escorted out of the house. The door definitely slammed behind us this time, and Howard didn’t invite us back.

* * *

Wyatt stopped by the inn about an hour later. I automatically sat a platter full of cream-filled pastries down in front of him. Wyatt informed us that the Bloomingfields had come down to the police station because Mr. Bloomingfield had wanted to file a complaint against the “crime scene investigators” who’d come to their house to ask questions. Wyatt had immediately suspected me, but was surprised to hear Stone had gone along with the idea. He thought Stone had more sense than that, he said around a mouth full of cream cheese and strawberry jam. I assumed it was Wyatt’s way of saying I had absolutely no sense at all, and Stone was gradually being dragged down to my level. I didn’t appreciate the insinuation, but I kept quiet. I noticed Stone looked quite a bit embarrassed by Wyatt’s reaction to his involvement in the matter.

“I knew better,” Stone said. “I apologize for getting involved, Wyatt. I knew I couldn’t prevent Lexie from going over there, and didn’t want her to go alone. But, I promise you we never claimed to be crime scene investigators, per se.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes dramatically and then went on to tell us that while Harold was filling out a complaint form, Bonnie Bloomingfield had walked over to the chief of police, stuck both her hands out in front of her, as if waiting for them to be cuffed. She told him she’d come to turn herself in for killing Pastor Steiner. She confessed to having no idea why she’d decided to kill him, and had no real recollection of doing so. But she seemed certain she was guilty of the crime.