Shannon’s hands were beneath the top of the table, out of the chief’s view, but I could see them open and close, open and close. She was frightened.
“The dog?”
He didn’t repeat the question. He waited, his gaze steady and demanding.
“I don’t think so.” Her hands opened and closed. “I was asleep.”
I dropped down, whispered in the chief’s ear. “Ask if she heard her mother go outside.”
He went rigid for an instant, then cleared his throat to hide the tiny hiss of my words. “What time did your mother go outside?”
Her eyes flared wide. She waited an instant too long to reply, then said quickly, “Mom didn’t go outside.” There was stark fear in her eyes. “If anybody said so, that’s a lie.” She pushed up, struggling for breath. “Mrs. Dunham wanted Jack to die. Talk to her.”
Jimmy Hume looked tired and somber, his drawn face giving a preview of his appearance at forty if life turned out to be unkind, purplish smudges beneath his eyes, a hard, mournful stare, jaws clenched in worry.
Chief Cobb leaned back in his chair. “You were angry with your uncle. You threatened him.”
“For the record”—Jimmy’s voice was dull—“I didn’t push Jack—”
The door opened. Detective Sergeant Price strode around the table. He carried a gallon-size plastic bag, holding it by the zipped top. He placed the bag on the table.
Chief Cobb looked down at a picture of a handsome young man in a cap and gown. The picture was not framed.
Price pointed. “Found this photograph in the murder suite, slipped into a coffee-table book about Yellowstone. Good work by Officer Woolley. She flipped through the books one by one and noticed that a page seemed too thick. She looked closer and saw tape at the top and bottom, keeping two pages together. When she used a razor to slit the tape, it opened and the photograph fell out. Pretty clever.”
I agreed. A clever hiding place devised by Ronald Phillips, a clever officer to find it.
Jimmy craned to see. He frowned.
Chief Cobb glanced from the photograph to Jimmy. “Do you know him?”
“Sure. That’s Ryan Dunham.” Jimmy appeared puzzled. “I don’t see why his picture was in the Phillipses’ room. Ryan’s a great guy. That’s strange.”
Cobb made no reply to Jimmy. He looked toward the detective. “Has the photograph been checked for prints?”
Price nodded.
“Then I’ll keep it for now. Thanks, Hal.”
At the door, Price looked back. “We have everybody’s prints here in the house. We’ll see if there’s a match on the gun. We still need prints from Alison Gregory and the Dunhams.”
“I want to talk to them first.”
Price nodded.
As the door closed, Cobb turned back to Jimmy. “You were angry with your uncle?”
Jimmy looked bleak. “Yeah. But like I said, I didn’t kill Jack. Maybe I would have punched him. I wouldn’t kill him. Ditto for Laverne and Ronald.” He took a deep breath. “I suppose I have to tell you. I was outside last night. I couldn’t sleep.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I took a long walk. There was plenty of moonlight. Maybe I walked a couple of miles, maybe more. I came back by the gazebo. Somebody was walking away from the house, across the grass. I didn’t think much about it. Maybe somebody else couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I was trying to figure out what was going on with the nutty Phillipses. I didn’t really think anybody pushed Jack. I mean, that was crazy. I thought that snake—yeah, well, he’s dead now—anyway, I thought Ronald was trying it on, thinking he could squeeze more money out of Mom. See, Mom heard me yell at Jack and she’s easy to scare. I was trying to decide what to do. But what can you do when somebody says something and you can’t prove it’s a lie? Anyway, I was mad and tired and I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I almost ducked back the way I’d come, but then I saw him stop and look back, almost turn, then head toward me again. I knew it was a man. Maybe that’s why I stopped. If it was Ronald, I was going to…Well, that doesn’t matter now. Anyway, I waited. When he got about halfway to the opening to the Dunhams’, I saw it was Mr. Dunham. He stopped again and looked back. I couldn’t see his face clearly in the moonlight. He stood there for a minute and then he jerked around and hurried toward the gate.” Jimmy’s face furrowed in misery. “Clint Dunham was my scoutmaster. Ryan”—he nodded toward the photograph—“is one of my best friends. Maybe Mr. Dunham couldn’t sleep, too. Maybe he was outside and heard Walter and wondered about the noise.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed. “Was the dog following him?”
“No.”
“Did you hear the dog?”
“When I was over by the lake, I thought I heard him yipping. But I didn’t pay any attention. Sometimes he stays in, sometimes he goes out. If he sees anybody, he barks his head off. Same thing if he finds a rabbit. The thing is”—Jimmy looked burdened—“this morning in the toolshed, Walter had a rawhide bone. It was chewed slick. He loves that stuff. Anytime you want to make Walter happy, give him a rawhide bone.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chief Cobb hooked a finger to loosen his tie. “Hotter than blazes.” Beneath one arm, he held the plastic bag containing the photograph of Ryan Dunham.
Hal Price wiped sweat from his face. “Supposed to hit a hundred and one.” He carried a black case approximately a foot wide and five inches deep.
No trees shaded the path from the side door of The Castle to the gate in the shrubbery between the Hume and Dunham properties. Both men squinted against the hot, sharp brightness of blistering sunlight.
Much as I enjoyed being in the vicinity of Hal Price, I wished the chief was alone. I had much I wanted to communicate.
As Hal closed the gate behind them, they looked toward an English manor house, not a mansion like The Castle, but a nice, solid home that gleamed with care, the product of years of love. Ferns flourished in blue ceramic vases on the front porch. Red-and-blue cushions made wicker chairs inviting. Stained-glass insets gleamed in the front door.
At the base of the steps, the chief looked back toward the gate. “Maybe two hundred yards from here to The Castle.”
As they climbed to the porch, Price looked around the Dunhams’ spacious yard. “If all he wanted was a walk, he had plenty of room here.”
“I don’t think he was looking for exercise.” Chief Cobb pushed the front bell.
When the door opened, Gwen Dunham’s patrician face looked pleasant. Spun-gold hair emphasized deep violet eyes. She was lovely in a rose Shaker-stitched silk sweater and cream-colored silk trousers. The elegant, immaculate hallway behind her was a perfect setting for her cool beauty. She looked up at the chief and her face was suddenly strained. Adelaide was a small town. She might not know Chief Cobb socially, but she would recognize him as chief of police.
In the instant before Chief Cobb pulled out his wallet, opening it to provide identification, I gazed at the lawmen as if I were Gwen.
Despite his wrinkled brown suit and slightly askew tie, Chief Cobb looked formidable, tall and powerfully built. Hal Price was a man most women would sharply note, white-blond hair, rugged features, athletic build. Price’s slate blue eyes, cool and impersonal, never moved from her face.
The wallet lay open in the chief’s large strong hand. “Police. Chief Sam Cobb, Detective Sergeant Hal Price.” The plastic bag was still tucked beneath his left arm, the photograph not visible to Gwen.
Price, too, held open his billfold.
Chief Cobb spoke quietly, with no hint of threat. “There has been a crime—”
Gwen’s eyes widened. One hand sought support from the doorjamb. The arrival of police with unreadable faces at a front door evoked the terror of bad news, someone dead, someone hurt. “Ryan…” Her son’s name was a desperate whisper.