8 A Wedding and a Killing Read online

  He was surprised to see Helga’s laptop resting on the desk. He had expected her to take it with her if she had left town. Most people he knew, especially those who worked in a type of career that depended heavily on the Internet or computerized data, would not leave their laptop behind.

  Unless there’s nothing helpful on this? Wonder if she deleted the hard drive and her emails?

  After slipping on a pair of evidence gloves, David fingered the top of the laptop. “What about before the phone call? Around noon?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Becky said. “I go to lunch at twelve. She was here when I left. She came in about five minutes after me.” She grinned. “I know because I was three minutes late getting back from lunch. She makes a big point of looking at the clock to make note if I’m late and since I was, I was really glad that I got back before her.”

  “Which made it eight minutes after one o’clock.” David opened the lid to the laptop and pressed the button to power it up. “What was her manner when she came in?”

  She shrugged. “She was breathless and her face was flushed.” She nodded her head as if to confirm her own assessment. “And she looked sweaty, too.”

  “Like she was rattled?”

  Becky continued to nod her head. “Exactly. Do you think she killed that man?”

  “Did she say anything to you about where she’d been?” David asked.

  She switched gears to shaking her head. “A couple of minutes after she came in, she got a phone call on her cell to tell her about the murder and she went flying out of here.”

  The login screen came up on the laptop. So far, so good. Doesn’t look like she wiped the hard drive. While shutting it down, he asked her, “So you don’t know where she was while you were at lunch?”

  “She never said. I know she ran a lot of errands to the church. It’s only like ten minutes away.”

  Noting how easily it would have been for Helga to run over to the church, shoot Eugene, and then get back to her office, David unplugged the laptop and placed it and the power cord in the laptop case resting against the desk. The laptop wasn’t including in the warrant, but since Sirrus had voluntarily offered it, the police chief was not about to leave it behind.

  “Do you know where Helga Thorpe is now?”he asked the assistant.

  Becky’s eyes were wide. “Actually,” she swallowed, “when I saw you coming in, I thought you were coming to tell me that something had happened to Mrs. Thorpe—like that she was dead.”

  “Why did you expect that?” David asked her.

  “Because I don’t know where she is,” Becky said. “She never misses work. She always makes sure I know how to get in touch with her, but she wasn’t here when I came in today. When I asked Mr. Thorpe, he shrugged his shoulders and said she was gone and not coming back, which is really weird. Don’t you think that’s really weird, Chief O’Callaghan?”

  “Yes, I do, Becky.”

  “It doesn’t seem right, us coming home and leaving Gnarly at the police station,” Archie said while tapping away on her laptop’s keyboard to bring up the reports for Mac to read her discoveries. “I feel like a mother foisting her child on another mother.”

  Mac sniffed to take in the scent of the rosy perfume on her shoulders. “Believe me, when it comes to Gnarly, there is no foisting him on Tonya. She loves animals more than people.” He draped his arm across the top of the kitchen chair where she was sitting.

  Even though Spencer Manor was a luxurious stone and cedar home at the very tip of Spencer Point, the most expensive piece of real estate in Spencer, Mac and Archie spent much of their time in the kitchen or on the deck. The mansion he had inherited from Robin Spencer had a massive study and library where the author had penned her world famous mystery novels.

  While most men with Mac’s bank account would spend their time smoking cigars in the parlor while sipping expensive cognac, Mac Faraday found that he spent most of his time chatting with Archie while sipping coffee at the kitchen table—the way his adoptive parents used to do.

  Archie brought up the autopsy report. “How many times did Ruth say she shot Jason?”

  “Twice,” Mac reported. “Which didn’t make sense because she said the first shot was to the shoulder and the second was to his leg. Unless she hit a main artery or vein—”

  “She didn’t mention the shot between the eyes?”

  “Do you mean like the way Eugene was shot?” Mac asked in a somber tone.

  “Exactly.” She turned to Mac. “The one between the eyes was the kill shot. The ME says he would have survived the other two shots.” She turned the laptop for him to see one of the crime scene pictures. “His mother found him sitting up in a chair and look at what’s in his lap.”

  Mac studied the picture. Jason Fairbanks’ body was sprawled upright in a chair at what appeared to be a table. His face was bloody, with the center of the blood being between his eyes. Clearly evident in the photograph was a bloody towel in his lap. “Either the victim got or someone gave him a towel to help stop the bleeding—which means time had passed between the first two shots and the fatal one. Ruth says she ran right after shooting him in the leg.”

  “Considering that he had time to get a towel and sit down at the kitchen table,” Archie said, “I believe we have evidence that someone coming in after Ruth finished the job she started.”

  “Ruth called Madame X to tell her what had happened,” Mac said. “If she set Ruth up, then she had the golden opportunity to kill Jason and frame Ruth. Do you think you can find her?”

  “Well, the forensics report does contain a clue to someone else being on the scene after Ruth left. That someone may or may not be our Madame X.” Archie pointed to the report she brought up on the laptop monitor. “Chicken poop.”

  Mac forgot about the sweet rosy scent he was sniffing on her shoulder. “What did you say?”

  “Chicken poop.” She turned her head to grin at him. “The crime scene investigators picked up footprints in the kitchen that had dirt particles containing a variety of different types of substances, including chicken poop.”

  Rubbing the side of his face with his hand, Mac sat back in his seat. Trying to find where this piece of information fit into this case, he asked, “Did the Fairbanks live in a rural area?”

  Archie was already shaking her head. “Upper-class suburbia.”

  “But certainly our killer came from or at least had some contact with farming or farm animals to have picked up chicken poop on his shoes.”

  “Maybe he worked at a petting zoo,” Archie suggested. “Not only was it on his feet, but his hands, too. Traces of the same substances were found on the grip of the murder weapon.”

  “Fingerprints?” Mac asked with a hopeful tone in his voice.

  “Not that lucky.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I still love you.” Mac kissed her softly on the lips. “As a matter of fact, I may even marry you.”

  With a contented sigh, she pressed her forehead against his and closed her eyes. “Promises, promises.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “County and state police have Helga Thorpe’s plates and the description of her tan, four-door sedan,” Bogie told David when the police chief returned to the station. “We’ve issued a BOLO to bring her in for questioning. What did you find out about Thorpe’s gun?”

  “He claims he hasn’t seen it in years.” Having noticed a red convertible sports car in the parking lot, David glanced around the squad room for the vehicle’s owner while unpacking Helga Thorpe’s laptop. It was wrapped and sealed in an evidence bag. “I’ve got four officers searching the store, house, and garage for it.” He handed the laptop to his deputy chief. “This is Helga’s laptop. If she’s got as big of a mouth as I think, then maybe we’ll find some evidence to use against her on here—like maybe she blabbed her intentions to one of her church
lady friends.”

  “I’ll get this to the forensics people.” Bogie went to Tonya’s desk to open up the evidence log book to check in the laptop.

  “Any word from Mac?” David asked him.

  “He called to see if it was safe for him to come in.” With a sly grin, Tonya asked, “Is it?”

  Spotting Gnarly stretched out on his back on the sofa, with his head straight back to reveal the underside of his chin, David replied, “He has to face me sometime.” He turned his attention back to the car outside. Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he asked, “Who does the car belong to?”

  “Marilyn Newton,” Bogie said. “She’s waiting in the interview room.”

  “Did you interview her already?”

  “I talked to her at the hospital last night,” Bogie said. “She has no idea who would want to kill Eugene, but then, she was in total shock. Maybe she thought of someone since then.”

  “Other than herself?” David asked. “Her husband was dead for less than twenty-four hours before she booked a cruise for two to Hawaii. She’s looking very good to me right now.”

  “And you haven’t even seen her yet,” Tonya muttered under her breath.

  Not hearing what she had said, David replied, “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.” The desk sergeant turned her attention to logging the laptop into the police system’s evidence database.

  “Marilyn Newton doesn’t have access to a forty-five caliber semi-automatic that happens to be missing and she didn’t skip town,” Bogie said. “Look, David, I know this woman. She adored her husband and in spite of how things look, she didn’t have anything to do with killing Eugene.” He gestured down the hallway. “Have a go-around with her and see what you think.”

  “I will.” Taking the case file from Bogie, David spun on his heels and went toward the interrogation room.

  After winking at Tonya, Bogie fell in behind the police chief.

  Years of working in law enforcement had put David in contact with different people from various walks of life. During that time, he believed that he had developed the ability to anticipate what type of people are attracted to each other. “Birds of a feather flock together.” Thugs usually hung out with criminal-types. Debutants socialized with other members of high society. After seeing a victim of a crime, David could make an educated guess about how that victim lived and what type of friends he or she had.

  Eugene Newton was a middle-aged man who had devoted his life to his church. His volunteer work as the chief trustee was a time consuming job for which he did not receive any money. It was a meticulous job. The office where he worked was orderly. He had a precisely organized routine—like refusing to answer the door or phone while he was counting the offering—lest he make an error in his duty. Such men married women who could be equally disciplined.

  Like her husband, a church elder, Eugene Newton’s wife would be middle-aged, simply and conservatively dressed, and mild-mannered. She would wear a plain looking dress with a high neckline, flat shoes, and her make-up understated—or maybe no makeup at all.

  Marilyn Newton could only be a first-class church lady. Hopefully, Bogie thought to disarm her of her heavy handbag upon entering the police station.

  I hate church ladies. David was in the middle of this thought when he threw open the door to enter the interview room to find a strikingly attractive, blonde-haired woman with big blue eyes.

  Marilyn Newton was clad in white Capri pants and a sapphire blue tank top that plunged down to reveal an abundant bosom. While waiting for her interrogation, she had removed a manicure kit from her purse and proceeded to touch up her long fingernails, which were painted blue with gold sparkles to match her toenails and earrings.

  “Mrs. Newton …” David turned around to see Bogie grinning when he came in behind him.

  Fighting the chuckle working its way up his throat, Bogie backed David into the room and closed the door behind them.

  With a wide grin that filled her face, their suspect jumped up out of her seat and offered her hand. “Are you the chief of police that Bogie told me about?”

  David reached for her hand. Abruptly recalling that the top coat she had just applied was still wet, she retracted her hand and blew on her nails. “I’m sorry. Wet nails.”

  What is it with church ladies and their fingernails? Recalling the manicure and pedicure party he had walked into the day before, David muttered, “That’s been going around a lot lately.”

  “It is such an honor to meet you, Chief O’Callaghan,” she said with genuine enthusiasm before blowing on her fingernails. “Bogie has nothing but praise about how brilliant you are. Thank you so much for inviting me down here to talk about my Eugene. It makes me feel so good to know that his murder is a top priority and that you are working so hard on his case. I have no doubt about you finding the horrible person who took him from me.”

  She giggled when she saw David looking at the manicure kit spread out on the table. “Excuse me,” she apologized while gathering up the bottle of clear polish and other materials. “I’d been waiting for so long and I needed to do something with my hands. I tried to get ahold of Doc Washington. Bogie said she would call to let me know when they’ll be able to release my Eugene’s body. I need to arrange to have him cremated.” She continued to alternate between blowing on her fingertips to dry them and putting away the manicure kit into a leather case.

  “I am so glad my Eugene and I talked about what we wanted,” she said with a weak grin. “I can imagine what wives who have things like this happen must go through. It’s shocking enough that someone shot him—at the church of all places. But if I didn’t know what my Eugene wanted done …” She stopped and swallowed. “Pardon me, please. I talk a lot when I get nervous.” She stuffed the case into her handbag.

  “Mrs. Newton,” David said, “I am so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Chief O’Callaghan.” She blinked back tears from her eyes. “I really appreciate how kind you and Bogie and all of your people have been. Do you know who killed my Eugene yet?”

  At first glance, David had estimated that she was much younger than her husband. But upon closer inspection, he saw that her slender, fit figure and youthful manner were what gave that impression. Her skin was naturally youthful in appearance. Deep smile lines around her mouth and eyes gave away the hint to what had to be her age of early fifties.

  “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about.” David eased into the chair across the table from her. “It is standard procedure in a murder investigation to keep track of expenditures on the victim’s credit cards—”

  “Did someone steal my Eugene’s credit cards?” she blurted out. “Is that why he was killed?”

  “No,” David said. “It came to our attention that you booked a ten-day cruise to Hawaii on your husband’s account this morning.”

  “It’s a joint account,” she said. “Was that wrong?” She looked at Bogie when she told him, “No one told me that I wasn’t allowed to charge anything to our account. I paid a deposit for a lyre this morning too, to play for my Eugene’s funeral.”

  “A leerer?” David shook his head in an effort to get everything to make sense. “You paid someone to leer—”

  “Lyre,” she said slowly. “It’s a musical instrument, like a ukulele, only Nordic. Eugene wanted a Viking funeral. Did I do something wrong? Should I have waited to contract all that stuff now? Was I supposed to wait?” She waved her hands. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. You have to forgive me.” Sobbing into her hands, she stood up. “I’m such a newbie. I never had a husband murdered before…”

  “That’s okay, Marilyn.” Bogie eased her down into her seat. “You didn’t know any better.” He shot a glare at David for upsetting her. “We have been through this before. We completely understand.” Once she was seated, Bogie shot another chastising glare in David’s direction.
r />   The police chief responded with an expression that asked, “What-was-I-supposed to-do?”

  “Well, I certainly hope I never have to go through this again. But if it does, at least I’ll know better what to do and what not to do.” Patting her chest with her slender hand, she sighed. “I mean, how many husbands can a woman have killed off before the police start getting suspicious?” She stopped and looked across the table at David, who squinted back at her. “That didn’t come out right, did it?”

  “Mrs. Newton, you have to understand how all this looks to us,” David said by way of explanation to both her and Bogie.

  “Eugene said he wanted a lyre and there is only one musician who plays the lyre in the whole state,” she said. “I had to put down a deposit to book him. Do you know how many men want Viking funerals? I never would have thought—”

  “Forget the Vikings and the lyre,” David said.

  “I can’t,” she said. “Eugene was very specific. He wrote it all down in his death book.”

  Bogie sat up straight in his chair. “Death book?”

  “It’s a book or file where you keep all necessary information for after your death,” David explained. “Military people put one together before going overseas. It has all of your account information, will, or what you want for your funeral.”

  “My Eugene had everything written down in his book, plus he told me.” With a gasp, she covered her mouth. “I also bought a truckload of firewood, twenty gallons of gasoline … and a pig this morning.”

  David shook his head. “A pig?”

  “For the bonfire,” she said. “I figured since we were having a giant fire that we’d roast a pig, too.” Tears in her eyes, she smiled. “Eugene always said he wanted to go out like a Viking.”

  “Why a Viking?” Bogie asked.

  “He saw it in a movie once,” Marilyn said. “I don’t remember the name. … It was a simple name and it had this big Viking funeral at the end.”

  “Was it The Viking?” David asked while rubbing his forehead.