LC 02 - Questionable Remains (18 page)

Clay made a derisive noise. "The coroner-he's so stupid
he couldn't pour water out of a bucket if the instructions
was written on the bottom of it."

"Martha says he has to be careful. He can't just accuse
folks," said Lorinda.

"He didn't have to accuse anybody; he just didn't have to
be so-well, I didn't come here to re-argue old stuff," said
Clay. "Just to ask you if you'll have a look into Blaine's
death."

"You wouldn't happen to have any pictures of the
remains?" asked Lindsay.

"Sure. I had a devil of a time getting them from of
Prescott, but I got 'em."

"Do you know who identified the remains?"

"Sure. Blaine's-what you call him, Lorinda?"

"Orthopedist," she said. "Blaine had a bad knee. Football
injury."

"Yeah, that's it, orthopedist. Dr. Ballinger, Olin Ballinger.
He replaced Blaine's knee or something. Anyway, he recognized his own work."

"I see. Did he look at the other skeletons as well?"

Clay shrugged. "I reckon."

"Has he ever done this kind of identification before?
Would he know how to look for bones damaged by knives
or bullets?"

"Don't know that either. I think all the coroner wanted to
do was identify the bodies. He thought it was pretty clear
what killed them. But you know, rocks can fall on you when
you're dead just like when you're alive."

"You can tell if a person's been shot or something even if
there's only ... uh ... bones left?" asked Lorinda.

"Sometimes. Tell me about his disappearance," said
Lindsay.

"It was on a Friday," said Lorinda. "He didn't come home
from work. I remember he'd been tellin' me all week about
a surprise for me and the kids, but he wouldn't say what.
He was like that. A kid when it came to surprises. He told
me to go out and buy the most expensive dress I could find.
That Saturday night we were going to a party." Lorinda
stopped speaking and her mouth quivered very slightly.

Clay took up the story. "We know now that Jennifer
Darnell," he said her name in a mildly haughty voice as if
perhaps Jennifer had used that tone with him, "had planned
a party Saturday to announce Wild Journeys, Inc., an offshoot of Everything Sporting-that's their store. She had to
cancel the party when Ken and Blaine went missing, but
again that's where she was so smart. Anybody who watches Unsolved Mysteries knows that's where people get tripped
up and bring suspicion to themselves. They don't make
plans they're supposed to, and the police think, aha, they
knew the person would be dead and not really need the
tickets to Rio, so they didn't buy them " He leaned forward,
emphasizing his point. "Jennifer was smarter than that. She
followed through with all the plans, incorporating Wild
Journeys, planning the party, hiring caterers, sending out
two hundred invitations, the works. The police were so
dumb, they fell for it." He sat back in his seat, as if he had
proved his point.

Lindsay didn't say what she thought-that perhaps the
woman was innocent and that you couldn't use her having
done all the right things against her. Instead she asked, "Do
you have any physical evidence, or did anyone overhear her
say something that was incriminating?"

"No," said Lorinda. "Nothing. But what I couldn't make
people understand was that I knew my husband. I know he didn't tell me about investing our savings-they always
throw that into my face every time I try to tell them anything-but that was a surprise, a present. You can have
secrets in a marriage, but that don't mean you don't know
each other. Blaine would not have cut us out of that much
money. He wouldn't have. He had dreams for the kids,
things he wanted for them." Lorinda reached in her purse
and drew out a Kleenex and delicately blew her nose.

"May I have a look at the pictures of the remains?" asked
Lindsay.

"They're in the car. I'll get them," said Clay.

"No, I'll do it," said Lorinda. "I need to stop by the ladies'
room."

After Clay let Lorinda out of the booth and watched her
disappear into the hallway that led to the rest rooms, he
leaned forward and said to Lindsay in a conspiratorial whisper, "You know, you can look at the bones anytime you want."

Lindsay eyed him, puzzled. "They've not been buried?"
she asked hesitantly.

He shook his head and looked around to be sure the waitress was not coming and no one was listening, then continued. "They have a family plot on their property. See,
Blaine's father had these-what you call it-grandiose delusions for the family. He was also in construction. He built
one of them marble buildings in their private graveyard."

"A vault?" asked Lindsay.

"Yeah. Can you believe it? Anyway, of Blaine's in there."

"Well," said Lindsay carefully, "if I find anything in the
pictures, we may need to get an exhumation order."

"I'm telling you, you don't have to dig him up. He ain't
buried, and he ain't in a public cemetery. Just let me know,
and me and Steven-that's his brother-will get you in."

Lindsay had a vision of herself in the dead of night carrying a lantern, breaking into a crypt with the guy sitting
across from her and his brother-in-law. She could just see
the headlines. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Lorinda returned shortly and handed Lindsay a large folder tied with a blue ribbon. Lindsay untied the ribbon, opened
the folder, and glanced at the contents. It must have been
hard for Lorinda to look at the picture of the bones, knowing
they were her husband. Lindsay wondered if, like Grace
Lambert, she simply did not look. She closed the folder.

"Can I keep these a while? I will need time to give them
a thorough looking over."

"Sure," said Lorinda. "We're just glad to have somebody
listen to us."

"Did you know Ken Darnell?" asked Lindsay.

Both Lorinda and Clay shook their heads. "Not well,"
said Lorinda. "He was mainly a friend of Blaine's."

"Did Blaine ever mention any trouble Darnell and his
wife might be having?"

"No," said Lorinda, "but he wouldn't. Blaine really didn't notice things like that, and he wasn't much for talking
about personal stuff with people."

"What about the other man who was killed-who was
he?" asked Lindsay.

They shook their heads. "We didn't know him," said
Clay. "He was a friend of Ken's. I don't think he was a partner or anything."

"I think the guy's name was Roy Pitt," offered Lorinda.

"So, you'll look into it?" asked Clay.

"I can't promise anything. I'll do my best," Lindsay told
them.

"We really do appreciate it," said Clay. "Like Lorinda
said, it's a relief just to have somebody listen to us."

On her way back to her room, Lindsay stopped to put
the photographs in the motel safe along with the ones the
Lamberts had given her. They were evidence, as far as she
was concerned, and she treated them as such. Her telephone was ringing as she was opening the door to her
room. She raced to get it. Grace Lambert's voice was on the
other end.

"I heard on the news about the death at an archaeological
site," she said a little breathlessly. "It said that you were
there."

"Yes," said Lindsay, going over in her mind how much to
tell her.

"That must have been terrible for you," she said.

"It was very unpleasant for all of us," replied Lindsay.

"I don't suppose you have had the time to do much
investigating since I spoke to you."

"Not a lot, but I did talk to the wife of one of the men
killed with your brother. I didn't learn anything definitive,
but, like you, she has her suspicions." Lindsay heard a
sharp intake of breath. "Don't make too much of that. I
haven't seen any hard evidence of anything yet. She was
able to give me some good photographs of her husband's
remains. I haven't examined them yet."

"So I may not be overreacting to my brother's death, after
all," she said.

"I don't want to mislead you in any way," said Lindsay,
carefully picking her words. "It's true there are things about
the accident that need to be answered. It may be that when
I find the answers they will be completely reasonable."

"I understand," said Grace, but Lindsay could tell by her
voice she was anticipating that her worst fears would be
true-that her brother was murdered.

Lindsay cautioned her again to not expect anything
unless the evidence justified it. After she got off the phone
with Grace, she dialed Jennifer Darnell's number. A housekeeper or a secretary answered. Lindsay told the woman
her name and asked to speak to Mrs. Darnell.

"Just a moment," said the voice.

Lindsay thought it odd that the woman did not ask what
she wanted. Gatekeepers usually do. It's their job to guard
the gate. Lindsay suspected that the woman already knew
her name and was expecting her call.

"This is Jennifer Darnell."

"Mrs. Darnell, I was wondering if I could talk to you.
Perhaps in a restaurant or park? It's about-"

"I know what it's about, and I really don't care to talk to
you."

"I understand that your husband's death is a painful
topic. It's painful for your husband's sister also. I won't take
up much of your time."

"I have no obligation to talk to you. What is your connection to any of this?"

"No, you don't have to talk to me. I have no authority,
whatsoever. But I just want to know what happened so I can
tell Grace and her family."

There was silence-a full thirty seconds of silence.

"Do you know where Gilby's is?"

"I can find it," she told her.

"Meet me there in two hours." Click.

Lindsay put on the suit she wore to meet Prescott, and
after calling the restaurant for directions, she drove to
McMinnville, arriving in the parking lot twenty minutes
early. She sat in her Land Rover for a few minutes, going
over in her mind what she wanted to confirm-discoverfrom Mrs. Darnell. Truthfully, she wasn't sure. Jennifer
Darnell was not going to admit to murder. Lindsay didn't
even know if there had been a murder. So what did she
expect to discover from the dead man's wife? Did she
expect Jennifer Darnell to incriminate herself during
Lindsay's clever interrogation? Lindsay smiled to herself.
Not for the first time, the reality that she wasn't a detective
occurred to her with harsh clarity. She didn't really know
what she was doing if she didn't have a pile of bones in
front of her.

She reminded herself, however, she didn't have to solve
the case. She only had to look at the available evidence and
render an opinion. It would be up to the authorities to take
any necessary action. Lindsay took a deep breath and got
out of her vehicle.

It was an elegant restaurant-linen tablecloths and napkins, silver, china, and crystal goblets on the table. The
wallpaper was a deep red with black and gold Victorian floral designs. The carpet was also a deep red, the color of a
good red wine.

Jennifer Darnell was exactly on time. Lindsay had chosen
a table in the far corner of the restaurant and sat facing the
entrance. The hostess was ushering a woman toward her, a
small, trim woman who knew how to dress. Her apricot suit
went well with her dark hair. Jennifer Darnell was also very
pretty. She had large blue eyes, a small nose slightly pointed, and a small oval face with a fair, what some call a peaches and cream, complexion. Her hair came to her chin and
turned under slightly. It was smooth and slightly puffed
around her head, not stiff with spray but soft and shiny.

"You must be Lindsay Chamberlain," she said.

"Yes. Thank you for coming." Lindsay held out her hand.
Jennifer hesitated a moment before she took it. An emerald
circled by diamonds glittered on her finger in the soft candlelight. She had well-manicured nails, polished with a
color that matched her suit. Her hand was cold and her
handshake firm.

"I almost didn't come," she said, sitting down opposite
Lindsay.

"I know dragging all this up again must be painful, and I
debated about whether or not to contact you," said Lindsay.
"I only want a little information to tell the Lamberts."

"All right. To start with," she said, "I didn't kill my husband or his friends." Lindsay opened her mouth to speak,
but Jennifer interrupted. "Don't deny that's what you want
to talk to me about. I know what Grace thinks. She never
liked me from the beginning."

"Why not?" asked Lindsay.

Jennifer shrugged. "I don't think it's me, really, I don't
think anyone was good enough for her precious brother."
She shook her head. "Grace was so blind."

The waiter came to take their orders. "I recommend the
Chateaubriand," said Jennifer. "It's their house specialty."
Jennifer ordered the house steak, marinated mushrooms,
and a bottle of the house wine for both of them. She gave the
menus to the waiter and turned her attention to Lindsay. "I
hope you like red meat."

"That's fine," Lindsay said. "You sound angry with your
husband."

"I am. Just when our life was starting to get good, he goes
and gets himself killed, and his family blames me."

"Not the whole family, and I really believe it is the mystery surrounding his death that makes them suspicious."

"What mystery?" Jennifer Darnell asked.

"It's not a mystery to you, because the authorities kept
you informed. But the Lamberts weren't told very much. It's
hard for anyone to lose a loved one and not be able to say
good-bye to the body. Death is such a dreadful thing. The
family must be convinced not only that it has happened, but
that it was somehow an understandable death and the soul
is at peace. That's what viewing the body does for families.
Because Ken was found so long after his death and because
the authorities were not forthcoming, it was not possible for
the Lamberts to reach any closure."

"You sound like an anthropologist," Jennifer said.