“Dave, I wanted to let you know—”
I wasn’t certain of her tone. Was she calling in hope or in dread?
“—that I don’t have to decide anything about Susan’s will. Leon Butler witnessed the new will Saturday night and he’s going to make a sworn statement tomorrow and that means Keith will inherit.”
She listened.
I wished I knew what Dave Lewis was saying.
Peg’s face was abruptly resolute. “I’ll call you later.” She clicked off the phone.
Leon Butler’s pickup was the only vehicle parked in front of his house. Light outlined closed blinds at several windows. The front porch was shadowy. The early dusk of winter turned the surrounding woods dark and menacing. The only sounds were those of the night, the rustle of leaves, the occasional hoo of an owl, the faraway whistle of a train, the falsetto yips of a coyote.
It took me ten minutes of scouting to find the silent sentinels, at least a dozen of them, dressed all in black, caps, jackets, trousers, and boots. They were stationed in various places around the house and in the woods near the road. They had blended into the night, shadows among shadows.
Relieved, I popped inside. Since the blinds were closed, no sharpshooter would spot Leon Butler through a window and fire. If an attack came, that attack would have to occur in the house.
My stomach knotted. Kim Weaver had no warning when a rifle shot punctured the front right tire and her car careened into the water-filled pit. Tonight when the doorbell rang or the knock came at the back door, I would be there first. I had no weapon, but I could move without being seen. If a hand lifted with a gun ready to fire the instant the door opened, I would push the barrel to one side, afford time for a rescue to occur. From this moment until the trap either succeeded or failed, Leon Butler was my responsibility. True, he’d agreed to provide a target for an elusive killer, but it was I who had asked him to take that chance.
Water splashed and silverware clinked in the kitchen. Leon stood at the sink, washing his supper dishes. He worked with the sleeves of his red plaid flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. His lined, weathered face was somber. He dried the dishes and silverware and returned them to their proper places. He unrolled his sleeves, buttoned the cuffs, and walked to a door near the refrigerator. He opened it, flicked on the light to reveal basement steps. He closed the door, pushed home a bolt. At the back door, he slid the bolt into the bracket.
He walked across the wooden floor, his boots clumping, into the living room.
“Who’s coming?” the parrot squawked.
Leon shot a quick glance toward the cage at the blue-and-gold macaw. “Never miss a trick, do you, Archie? I don’t know. We’ll find out.” Moving purposefully, Leon strode to a gun safe tucked in a corner near an old walnut cabinet. He twisted open the lock, lifted out a thirty-eight, closed the safe. He spun the chamber, then retrieved a box of cartridges, loaded the gun. He balanced the gun in his hand with easy familiarity. In a moment, with a decisive nod, he placed the gun on a small wicker table next to an easy chair that faced the front door. The kitchen and stairs were behind the chair. He draped a copy of Field & Stream over the gun. He settled into the chair with its clear view of the front door, retrieved the magazine, and began to read.
Archie muttered, “I’m a good boy, am I,” and began to swing, the faint squeak a companionable sound in the quiet room.
Methodically, I checked out the rest of the house. Upstairs, there were three bedrooms and a study with a desk, bookshelves, and a computer. Downstairs, I flowed through a closed door to the left of the front door.
Three men waited in semidarkness in a small, military-neat bedroom with twin beds, a maple dresser, and a bedside table. Some illumination came from a hooded flashlight resting on the floor near Chief Cobb.
Cobb sat in a folding chair angled to the door. The door was opened a sliver, affording a narrow view of Leon in his easy chair, the stairs behind him, an old leather sofa to his left, and a portion of the parrot’s cage. In the narrow shaft of light from the open door, Cobb’s heavy face looked stern and determined. His gray suit was rumpled, his necktie loosened.
Detective Sergeant Price lounged in another folding chair. He was dressed in black, loose jacket, pullover sweater, slacks, tennis shoes. In a single stride, he could burst into the living room if Cobb flung the door wide. A police-issue revolver rested on one leg, his hand curved around the butt. In the dimness, his craggy face was calm, yet there was a sense of readiness and power about him despite his casual slouch.
Johnny Cain pulled a window shade back just enough to watch the front porch.
The men neither spoke nor moved. There was no sense of impatience. They were there, and there they would stay until night passed into day if necessary.
Occasionally Chief Cobb checked the luminous dial of his watch. Twilight faded to darkness.
I moved outside. Neither the house nor the woods gave any hint of watching eyes, listening ears, muscles ready for action.
Headlights abruptly swept the front porch. I blinked against the glare, trying to discern the vehicle, but I couldn’t see past the lights. The motor was turned off, the headlights doused. A car door slammed.
I almost went forward to see, knew that didn’t matter. What mattered was Leon. I went inside.
Leon’s head raised. He looked toward the door, his eyes narrowed. He placed the magazine over the gun and came to his feet.
Quick steps sounded on the front porch. The screen door rattled as a fist pounded. “Leon? Are you home?”
Shock held me immobile. I had never expected to hear that voice at Leon Butler’s house this night.
Leon’s face folded in a frown. He walked to the door, turned on the porch light. He slid open the bolt and turned the knob.
Peg Flynn held the lapels of her unzipped blue jacket against the chill of the night. The breeze stirred her light brown hair. She looked desperately unhappy.
I flowed onto the porch, poised to grab Peg’s arm if she held a gun. Unlike Chief Cobb, I’d been so sure of Peg’s innocence. She had offered her share of the estate to Keith. Yet it was she who had recalled the discussions at the dinner table when they were young and Susan’s husband Tom spoke of wills and estates. Did she know full well when she offered to stand aside in favor of Keith that Wade Farrell would explain, as he had, that her stepping aside would simply afford a greater share to the current heirs? Then she’d tried to give her share to Keith and the lawyer explained about gift taxes and the wisdom of Peg retaining the inheritance and spending it for Keith if she wished. Had all of her apparent generosity been an elaborate charade, designed to portray her as lacking any motive? And tonight, in the parking lot outside Wade Farrell’s office, she’d called to tell Dave Lewis about Leon as a witness to the new will.
In the glow of the porch light, her round face was drawn and tired, her eyes strained, but both hands were empty.
The door opened. Leon looked out, his expression grave. And sad.
She spoke fast. “I can only stay for a few minutes. I had to come. Leon, I’m in trouble. I don’t know what to do. And you always helped us.” Her voice was shaky.
Leon stepped back, held the door for her. He gestured toward the small sofa, waited until she took her place before he settled into his easy chair. If ever a man looked as if his heart had turned to stone, it was Leon.
Archie whistled and sang the first line of “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” The words were grotesque in his scratchy voice.
Peg pulled off her coat. She looked nervously toward the door.
I was inches away, alert for a gun.
She folded the coat, placed it beside her. Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m almost sure I know who killed Susan and Kim, but I don’t think it would do any good for me to go to the police. I don’t have any proof, at least not the kind the police need. And I’m scared for Keith. I brought him with me. He’s asleep in his car seat so I’ve got to hurry.”