Pouncing on Murder (9 page)

“Absolutely not,” I had said. “The man had emergency heart surgery less than two weeks ago. He’s exhausted. The last thing he needs is to sit in that little room for an hour, staring at the dragon on the ceiling tiles until you have time to show up.”

Inwood sighed. “And I suppose you have an alternative plan.”

Of course I did. “I’ll drive Adam home. You can come and talk to him.”

“And this can’t wait until morning why?”

“No time like the present,” I said briskly. “Besides, he shouldn’t be driving and his wife can’t take time off work to bring him to you. You’re going to have to come out here one way or another. Might as well get it done now.”

“My wife has dinner waiting.”

I felt a pang of guilt, but squashed it down. “I’m sorry for that, but I’m sure she’s used to warming things up.”

He sighed. “We’ll be out in half an hour.”

And indeed, half an hour later Deputy Ash Wolverson knocked on the front door. Detective Inwood was behind him, his shoulders drooping. We settled into the living room in short order, and now I could feel the questions coming to a close.

“Absolutely,” I said, nodding toward Adam. “It wasn’t a gentle swerve that was corrected with a jerk, you know, like sometimes happens when you’re reaching for something on the floor of the passenger’s seat and drift over a little, then realize what you’re doing and . . .” The three men were looking at me with identically disapproving expressions. “Not that I’ve done that,” I said quickly. Not lately, anyway. “What I’m saying is that it looked intentional. Not like a mistake.”

The detective gave a faint sigh, and I remembered the conversations I’d had the last time I showed up at the sheriff’s office. About eyewitnesses, and how they can’t be trusted to get details right.

I decided to go at it a different way. “I know this isn’t proof of anything, but it just didn’t feel like an accident.”

Though Inwood kept looking at his notebook, his eyebrows went up. “Didn’t feel like an accident,” he said slowly, writing down the words. Or at least that’s what I assumed he was writing. If he was writing “Minnie Hamilton shouldn’t be allowed out by herself,” I didn’t want to know about it.

“That’s right. It felt like . . .” I hesitated, then forged ahead with the inappropriate thought that had popped
into my head. “It felt like Christine was trying to make Adam her next victim.”

Inwood stopped writing. “Who’s Christine?”

Ash laughed. “Book or movie?”

“Book. The movie is too scary.” We smiled at each other and a warm fuzzy feeling wrapped itself around me. I’d tried to get Tucker to read horror books, but he’d pushed them away and asked why I wasted my time on that junk.

Inwood was frowning at the exchange. “Anyone care to enlighten me? Deputy?”

“Yes, sir,” Ash said. “Sorry. It’s the title of a book by Stephen King, later made into a movie. The title character is a possessed car who kills by a variety of methods.”

Inwood turned the page of his notebook. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Deering?”

“No, I can’t think of—”

I snapped my fingers. “FedEx. You said you were down at the mailbox to pick up a Federal Express package. Did you even order anything?”

“Not me, but I thought maybe Irene had.”

“Call her,” Detective Inwood said. “Find out.”

Adam picked up his cell phone from the side table. “Hey, it’s me. Have you ordered anything lately? Something that might have come FedEx?” He looked at the detective. “Okay, thanks, babe. No, I’m fine. I’ll see you when you get home,” he said, and thumbed off the phone.

“No order,” Inwood said.

Adam shook his head. “She said she hasn’t bought anything online for a couple of months.”

“Would anyone else be sending you something?” the detective asked.

“Can’t think who,” Adam said. “But I can call around and check.”

Inwood made a note. “Don’t bother. I’ll contact Federal Express and see if there was a delivery scheduled to your home.”

“If there wasn’t,” I said, sitting on the edge of the chair, “then this is proof that someone killed Henry and tried to kill Adam, too.”

Inwood looked at me. “Proof?” he asked, and I thought I heard sorrow in his voice. “The only proof in any of this is that Mr. Deering here has a tendency to get himself into accidents.”

My face went warm. “Oh, really?” I asked. “You think all this is—”

The detective held up his hand. “Proof,” he reminded me. “You were talking about proof. It’s a very narrow definition, Ms. Hamilton. What we have is theories and suppositions, none of which would interest the county prosecutor in the least.”

Since I didn’t even know the name of the county’s prosecuting attorney, I had to take his word for it. “But you have to admit that something weird is going on. I mean, what are the odds that two bizarre accidents would happen to the same guy in less than two weeks?”

Ash looked up from his notes. “I wouldn’t call a tree falling on a man out in the woods bizarre. Unusual, sure, but accidents happen.”

I frowned. Wasn’t he supposed to be on my side? “Maybe not, but combine the falling tree with this car
almost running him over. That can’t be something that happens on a regular basis.”

The glance exchanged by Ash and the detective confirmed the truth of my statement.

“We will explore all possibilities,” Detective Inwood said, tucking his notebook into his pocket. “I know the deputy here has the sheriff convinced there’s a possibility that Mr. Deering was, in fact, the intended murder victim all along.” He smiled faintly. “I think he’s nuts, but it’s his theory and he’s welcome to it.”

“And what do you think?” I asked. “Two unlikely accidents or one murder and one attempted murder?”

“We will explore all possibilities,” the detective repeated. “If Mr. Gill’s death was murder, we’ll find out. If Mr. Deering’s accident was a murder attempt, we’ll find out. Please assure him that we’ll put as many hours as we can into resolving this.”

My chin went up. “Why are you talking as if Adam isn’t even here? He’s not an idiot, he’s just recovering from surgery.”

“And he’s asleep,” Inwood said, gesturing in Adam’s direction. “We’ll be in contact, Ms. Hamilton. Tell Mr. Deering that if he thinks of anything else that’s pertinent”—he stressed the last word—“he should let us know immediately.”

The three of us got to our feet and I escorted them to the front door. It had been an odd little session, but at least they seemed to be taking the whole thing seriously.

Somewhere in the house, a clock started chiming the hour. I matched my steps to the beats and got to nine just
as I reached the door. Nine o’clock? How could it be that late? At least I had an excuse for being so hungry.

And that reminded me. I looked up at Detective Inwood. “Sorry about your evening. Um, what was for dinner?”

“Pea soup,” he said. “Hate the stuff, to tell you the truth.” He flashed a sudden smile. “And by the way, it’s not a dragon.”

I stared at him, uncomprehendingly. The poor man. He’d clearly lost it.

“Sit on the other side of the table next time. You’ll see what I mean.”

He opened the door and was gone before my brain caught up and remembered my earlier reference to the interview room ceiling tiles. Ash nodded at me and followed his boss. I closed the door behind them and watched out the side window as they got into the unmarked car and drove away down the hill, their taillights disappearing fast.

“Proof,” I murmured. Inwood had said it was a narrow definition. One of the phrases I’d heard most often as a child had been “Look it up, Minnie.” That simple instruction had probably steered me in the librarian direction from the time I could read. Not only because I loved to learn, but also because I loved to look at the explanatory pictures and diagrams in my parents’ dictionary. For a librarian, this was a little embarrassing to admit, so I tried not to mention it. Ever.

I glanced around for a dictionary, half hoping to see the same one I’d grown up with, but didn’t see any reference books. On the other hand, I had a smart phone. A
few finger taps later, I had a definition in front of me. “Something sufficient to establish something else as correct or true.”

It didn’t sound narrow to me. Matter of fact, it sounded wide-open. How could Inwood need more proof that Henry had been murdered than an attempt on Adam’s life?

But it was obvious that he didn’t think Adam’s almost-accident was anything other than an accident. Oh, sure, he’d paid lip service to the idea and said the right things about exploring all yada-yada-yah, but he didn’t really mean it, not down deep.

For a short instant I heard my mom’s voice in my head.
“Now, Minnie, don’t go thinking that you know for certain what anyone else is thinking or feeling. No matter what, all you have is a guess.”

I snorted. My mother wanted proof, too. Maybe she should have been a detective instead of a historian.

Mom kept on going.
“Respect other points of view, Minerva Joy. Only then will others respect your own.”

How that particular set of Mom Wisdom was going to help in this circumstance, I wasn’t sure. Then again, more than once Mom’s advice had proven useful when I’d least expected it to, so I probably shouldn’t discount any of it, which would please her to no end.

If I ever mentioned it, that is.

Now that the room had two less law enforcement officers in it, I unlatched Eddie’s carrier. I’d carried him in from the bookmobile when I brought Adam back home and he’d been sleeping the entire time. “Ready to come out?” I asked.

Eddie picked up his head and blinked. “Mrr?”

“Until Irene gets home,” I said. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

He closed his eyes and curled up into a ball half the size that he should have been able to curl up into.

“They’re gone?” Adam was blinking and scrubbing his face with the palms of his hands. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.”

“They left a few minutes ago,” I said, getting up from my crouch and moving into the sofa across from his recliner. “Do you want anything? Food, drink, television?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks for everything, but there’s no reason for you to stay. It’s getting late. Why don’t you go on home?”

I shrugged, not wanting to tell him that his wife and I were conspiring to keep him quiet and comfortable. “My aunt isn’t home tonight and it’s a big house for one.” Which was true. What I didn’t add was that I didn’t mind being alone every once in a while. Needed it, really. “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon hang out here for a while.”

“No problem,” he said, yawning. “If you leave, I’ll just flop here and think too much, so stay, by all means.”

“Is it possible to think too much?” I asked.

He moved his head in something that wasn’t quite a nod, but wasn’t exactly a head shake, either.

“C’mon,” I said, sliding down into a lazy slouch. “There’s no one here but me and Eddie. He won’t talk, and I won’t, either, not if you don’t want me to.”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

Right. And I was going to grow six inches next year.
But I didn’t say anything, just sat back and let the silence grow more comfortable. My own thinking drifted away, off to Tucker, and the upcoming summer. Then I thought about Henry and how summers for his children would be different from here on out, and—

“I think someone is trying to kill me,” Adam said suddenly.

“You . . . do?” Maybe he hadn’t been as asleep during that last part of the conversation as the three of us had thought.

“If that car really was trying to hit me, and it sure seemed like it, how can I think anything else? If it wasn’t an accident, and I don’t see how, it was . . .” He stopped.

I completed the sentence in my head.
It was attempted murder.

“So here I am,” he said, “supposed to be resting so I can recover from surgery as quickly as possible, but someone might be trying to kill me. How do I figure out what’s going on?” He slapped the arm of his chair. “From this recliner, how can I find out who killed Henry and tried to kill me? How will I ever be able to find out who was the real target? Was I the target and Henry was killed by accident? Was Henry the target and someone’s trying to kill me because of what I might have seen? Could someone have wanted to kill both of us?”

They were all excellent questions, and I had an excellent response ready. “Tell you what.” I sat up from my slouch. “I can do a little research about all this. Do some digging on Henry. Ask a few questions about him, maybe about you.”

Adam’s face brightened, but the look faded and he
shook his head. “I can’t let you do that. Besides, Detective Inwood and Deputy Wolverson will be doing the same thing. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Behind me, I heard a familiar
pad-pad-pad
noise. “Eddie, where are—” My cat jumped on the back of the couch. “Ah. There you are.” I reached back and pulled him around to sit on my lap, but he struggled away from me and walked up onto the arm of the couch closest to Adam.

He sat. “Mrr,” he said, staring straight at Adam. “Mrr.”

Adam moved his head so he could see around the large furry creature. “You speak cat. What does he want?”

“Pretend he’s a Magic 8 Ball.” I nodded in Eddie’s direction. “Ask him a question, any question.”

“Are you serious?”

“Try it.”

Adam put on a serious expression and stared straight into my cat’s yellow eyes. “O wise Eddie, should I have leftover pizza for dinner or leftover macaroni and cheese?”

There was a short pause, and then Eddie said, “Mrr?”

“The pizza is from Sunday,” Adam replied. “Irene made the macaroni and cheese yesterday.”

Eddie’s stare was intent.

“Yeah, you’re right. I should have finished that pizza days ago.” Adam smiled. “Here’s a tougher question—should I let your Minnie help me, or should I—”

But he didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Eddie made a long leap to the arm of his recliner, head-butted his shoulder, and started purring.

Loudly.

Adam laughed in a gentle sort of way and reached out to pet my cat. “Apparently Eddie thinks it’s a good idea that you help me out.”