“—at The Castle. Detective Sergeant Price and I have some questions about the gathering there last night.”
Her relief was followed immediately by dismay. “Last night?”
“May we come inside, Mrs. Dunham?” His voice was polite.
“I suppose so.” She sounded uncertain and frightened. She held the door and led the way to a small living room with a white stone fireplace and comfortable chintz-covered chairs and sofas. Densely patterned wallpaper pictured a Chinese vase with stylized flowers. She gestured toward the chairs on one side of a coffee table. She sank onto a small sofa opposite the police officers.
Price placed the polymer case on the floor by his feet. The chief held the plastic bag facedown.
Gwen sat straight and rigid.
Cobb was soft-spoken. “Last night you and your husband attended a séance—”
“Is that the crime? Is it against the law to have something like that, even in a private home?” Her voice was sharp.
“The crime”—his voice was stolid—“is murder. Ronald and Laverne Phillips were shot to death late last night.” He watched her, his gaze measuring.
Gwen struggled to breathe, her violet eyes wide with horror. And fear. “Shot?” She appeared to grapple with the enormity of violent crime. “Where?” The word was a faint whisper.
“In their second-floor suite at The Castle. They were not seen again after the séance. Their bodies were found this morning around eight A.M. They had been dead for several hours. We are fully aware of everything that was said at the séance.” He placed the bag with Ryan’s photograph faceup on a coffee table.
Gwen looked old and stricken, as if every bit of life and hope had drained away.
Sam nodded at the photograph. “Your son.”
She reached out a shaking hand. “Please. Don’t do this to us. I know what you are thinking. None of it’s true.”
“Is Ryan the son of Jack Hume?” His tone was quiet.
She trembled. “Oh, he may be.” Her face crumpled. “I suppose he is.”
“Did you tell your husband about Jack Hume’s threat to contact your son unless you informed Ryan?”
“I didn’t tell Clint.” There was truth in her voice, but terror in her eyes. The cocker had barked the night she met Jack in the gazebo. Did she fear her husband had followed her, overheard her quarrel with Jack?
“Have you discussed Jack Hume and your son with your husband?”
“No.” There was heartbreak in her face and in her voice.
I thought of the two of them in their lovely home, marred by strained silence and averted eyes.
She leaned forward, her voice urgent. “What Jack said doesn’t matter now. I don’t know anything about Jack’s death. He fell. That’s all I know. Last night, that awful woman”—Gwen’s face was hard and angry—“in her silly black dress and beads and thick makeup, pretending to commune with the dead. No wonder someone killed her. But their deaths have nothing to do with me or with Clint. We were here.”
“Did you leave the house after returning from The Castle?”
“No.” She was vehement.
“Did your husband leave the house?”
“No.” Her voice was ragged, her stare hard and bright.
“I see.” Nothing in the chief’s demeanor revealed the fact that I’d told him about Clint Dunham making up a bed downstairs in the den or that Jimmy Hume claimed to have seen Clint coming from The Castle toward his house. “Very well. Then I presume you have no objection to Detective Sergeant Price taking your fingerprints to see if there is a match on the murder weapon?”
Price picked up the shiny black case.
“I don’t care. Take them.” Her voice shook. “I didn’t shoot those people. Clint didn’t shoot them. Clint doesn’t know anything about any of this. Last night at the séance, he didn’t have any idea that awful woman was talking about Ryan.”
Cobb tilted his head, peered down at her, his expression skeptical.
“Clint doesn’t know anything.” Her voice was husky with despair. “Don’t tell him. Please don’t tell him.”
Cobb slowly shook his head. “I’m investigating three murders, Mrs. Dunham.”
She swallowed, said thickly, “You said they were shot? Well, then, neither of us could have done it. We don’t have a gun. We’ve never had a gun. Ask anybody.”
Cobb looked phlegmatic. “I understand you and Mrs. James Hume have been close friends for many years. During that time, you have visited The Castle many times.” His gaze was intent. “Were you and your husband familiar with the history of J. J. Hume’s office?”
A flash of knowledge moved and shifted in her eyes. “Diane’s always talking about The Castle. I never listened closely.”
The chief nodded. He glanced toward Hal. “Mrs. Dunham might prefer to have her fingerprints taken in the kitchen. I’ll be on my way to my office.”
She came to her feet, her face distraught. “I want Ryan’s picture. You have no right to keep it.”
“The photograph is included in evidence taken from the crime scene. If your son’s picture turns out not to be germane to the investigation, you may make a claim for its return.”
The chief retraced his steps, walking fast. At The Castle’s front drive, he headed for a police cruiser parked in the shade of a cottonwood. He unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat, placing the bagged photograph in a side pocket. Immediately the air-conditioning hummed.
The passenger seat was not, to put it kindly, tidy. I removed two empty Frito bags, a McDonald’s sack, three Styrofoam coffee cups, and a crumpled Baby Ruth wrapper.
As the cruiser pulled out of The Castle drive, he said conversationally, “Nice of you to come along. Make yourself comfortable.”
I brushed out the seat and settled back. “I’d be glad to appear.” I always enjoyed wearing an Adelaide police uniform. The French blue was a lovely color. I started to swirl into—
“No need to do that.” It was as near a yelp as I’d ever heard from Chief Cobb.
Obediently, I retreated. Another time.
As the car curved right at the base of the hill, I observed brightly, “If we’re on the way to your office, you could pick up some hamburgers from Lulu’s.”
“The office was for Gwen Dunham’s benefit.” As soon as the car was a block away from the Dunham house, he reached forward, punched a button. The siren squealed. The cruiser picked up speed, curved around a corner.
“Ooooh. Fun. You must be as hungry as I am.”
“I don’t use a siren to go to lunch. Hal will keep Gwen Dunham occupied long enough for me to get to her husband’s office before she can call him.”
Clint Dunham sat behind an unpretentious, plain gray metal desk in an ebony leather swivel chair. To one side on a shelf was a computer monitor with a keyboard. The room was large enough for two upholstered chairs in a bright floral print, bookcases on one wall, filing cabinets against another. Plain blue drapes framed large casement windows.
He stared at Chief Cobb, his face dogged, determined, and resistant. “I have nothing to say.” In a soft blue, short-sleeved polo shirt and khaki slacks, he was an odd figure for high drama. He looked like a man ready for a round of golf, not a man possibly fighting for his life.
The chief sat with his hands spread on his thighs. A fingerprint kit and manila folder were on the floor next to him. “Did you leave your house last night?”
No response.
“Did your wife leave your house?”
No response.
“A witness saw you on the grounds of The Castle.”
Clint’s eyes flickered, but his face was rigid.
Chief Cobb retrieved the folder, opened it, and placed on the desk the plastic bag with Ryan Dunham’s photograph. “Were you aware that Jack Hume is Ryan’s father?”
Clint’s jaws ridged. For an instant, his hands closed into fists.
The chief looked stern. “Three people have been murdered, Mr. Dunham. If you are innocent, you may hold information which can help solve these crimes. Did you hear the Humes’s cocker barking last night?”