“That door opens in the wind.” Kathleen was studiously casual.
I didn’t think she had a future in acting, but she was doing her best.
“It does it all the time. Don’t give it a thought.”
“The wind is out of the north,” the reasonable voice observed.
“How can it bounce open a door on the east? Chief, are you sure no one was out there?”
“Absolutely.” His voice lacked certainty. He made a grunting sound. “Almost done. Let me see about that golf bag.” 77
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He stuck his hand into the bag and rattled the clubs. He checked the zippered side pockets. He stepped back, glanced up and down the porch, gave an irritated shake of his head. “There’s no weapon here. Looks like we got a crank call.” He nodded toward Kathleen.
“I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Abbott. Please ask the reverend to call me tomorrow. I understand Daryl Murdoch spent a lot of time at the church. Maybe the reverend might have some idea why he was in the graveyard. I’ll make another check of the backyard and be on my way.”
As the screen door opened, I was up and over the guttering. I nestled the swaddled gun next to the telephone. Objects were accruing.
I must deal with them. And with Kathleen. As soon as possible. But perhaps I’d better keep tabs on the investigation in case the murderer had other surprises in store . . .
78
C H A P T E R 6
Ilightly touched the meshed grille as the police cruiser turned east on Main Street. Riding in a police car was a new experience. I would have preferred to be in the front passenger seat, but it was occupied by a grease-stained sack from Braum’s, a sixteen-ounce plastic malted-milk container, several file folders, a wrinkled windbreaker, and a can of mixed nuts. Chief Cobb lifted the yellow plastic lid of the latter, fished out a handful of nuts.
A sudden crackle and a voice spoke from the dashboard. “Chief, Anita.” Her voice was low and hushed, her words quick. “Mrs. Murdoch just came home. I’d say she hasn’t heard. Saw her face when the garage door opened. She looked tired, but no sign of emotion.
She had on her uniform. She’s a nurse. I’d guess she just got off duty.
You’d think somebody would have called her on her cell, but maybe she has it turned off.”
Chief Cobb’s face was somber. “I’m on my way. Keep watch until I get there.”
I sank back against the slick, plastic-sheathed seat. I’d not thought beyond saving Kathleen from her perilous predicament, but tonight marked trouble for others as well.
C a r o ly n H a r t
The cruiser picked up speed. We headed out Broadway. Everything seemed different. Littleton’s Lumber Yard was gone. There were a series of big buildings with fancy signs—Home Depot, Wal-Mart, Circuit City. Parking lots teemed with cars. Many of them seemed to be an odd hybrid between old-fashioned pickups and sedans. About the spot where I remembered the turnoff to a drive-in movie, there was a cluster of houses. We passed more and more houses, many with amazingly peaked roofs. High ceilings were obviously in vogue, but heating and cooling costs must be huge.
The cruiser turned in between two stone pillars. A discreet sign on one pillar read kensington hills. The street wound in a rambling fashion with offshoots every block or so. A half mile into the hilly development, the cruiser turned onto Laurel. We drove a half block, then slowed as the chief pulled up beside another cruiser almost hidden in deep shadow beneath a cottonwood. He pushed a button and his window came down.
Officer Leland—aka Anita—who was in the second cruiser, opened her door, stepped out. She bent to look inside his car.
The chief grabbed at the stuff lying on the seat, pushed it onto the floor. “Get in, Anita. I haven’t had a chance to ask about your trip.
When did you get back?”
She came around the cruiser to the passenger door, opened it. In the brief flash of the interior light, I had a better glimpse of her face, somber blue-gray eyes, thin high-bridged nose, pointed chin with the hint of a cleft. If she smiled, she would be pretty in an old-fashioned, understated way. She was a little older than I had realized, possibly her late twenties or early thirties. She looked tired.
“Yesterday afternoon. Murray took my shifts while I was gone. It’s good to be back at work.” She sounded distant and I wondered if it was fatigue or if she was keeping some emotion under tight control.
The chief reached out, awkwardly patted one hand. “Guess the news wasn’t what you’d feared.”
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She shivered. “Every time they turn up an ID that sounds like Vee, I think maybe this time I’ll find her, know what happened to her. But it’s always some other dead girl and I wonder where her family is, if anyone’s looking. So”—she drew a deep breath—“Vee’s still lost.”
“You’re worn out.” His smile was kind. “You shouldn’t have tried to come straight back to work.”
“It’s better to be busy.” Her tone was strained. She clasped her hands, tight and hard.
“Well, I can sure use you. There’s going to be plenty to do.” He cleared his throat, was once again brisk. “Get word out to everybody to come in tomorrow morning, then knock off for tonight.”
“You’re sure you don’t need me here?” She gestured toward a Tudor-style house. The light from living-room windows suddenly lessened as the drapes were drawn.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t take two to bring bad news.” She nodded. “Good night, Chief.”
He waited until she was in her cruiser, then eased his car down the street. He pulled into the driveway and parked.
I was right beside him when he reached the top of the bricked steps. He pushed the doorbell.
The porch light came on, brilliant as a stage spot, throwing the chief’s face into hard relief, emphasizing the deep lines that grooved from lips pressed tightly together. He looked like a man bringing bad news.
The door opened. A stocky middle-aged woman looked out, her face inquiring. The RN badge on her wrinkled white uniform read judith murdoch. Blond hair braided coronet-style made her plain face look severe. She had an air of weary competence.
I was surprised. Even dead, there had been a sporty attitude about Daryl Murdoch. There was nothing sporty about the woman staring out with a puzzled face. “Yes?”
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“Mrs. Murdoch? Mrs. Daryl Murdoch?”
She looked anxious. “Yes.”
He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to show his shield. “I’m Chief Cobb of the Adelaide Police. I regret having to inform you—”
“Has something happened to Kirby?” Her voice trembled. “Is my son hurt?”
“I’m here about your husband, Mrs. Murdoch. His body was found tonight in St. Mildred’s cemetery.” The chief’s voice was gentle, but his eyes never left her face.
She looked dazed, uncomprehending. “Daryl’s dead?” The words were slow and painful.
“Yes, ma’am.” He spoke quietly. “His body was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum. He died as the result of a gunshot wound, an apparent homicide. His body has been taken to the hospital. The law requires an autopsy. Is there someone I can call to come and be with you?”
“Daryl was shot?” Her voice was faint. “Who shot him?”
“We have not found any witnesses. We have secured the crime scene—”
I felt another qualm. Certainly the cemetery was not the actual crime scene.
“—and the investigation is proceeding. I know this is a hard time for you to answer questions, but I would appreciate a few minutes with you. I won’t stay long. If you’ll tell me someone to call . . .” She held the door, moved like a sleepwalker to her right. She touched wall switches and bright lights revealed a rather stiff-looking living room with brocaded furniture, heavy red drapes, a red-and-blue Oriental rug, and a grand piano. She walked to a sofa, sank onto it. She gestured to an opposite chair with an overstuffed cushion and curly walnut legs.