“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Dinny, give me an hour. If she’s not home, she’s on the golf course, most likely.”
“Okay.”
Within twenty minutes, Rick and Coop were zipping toward the back nine in a golf cart. When members started to wave at them as they roared through their games, they quickly discerned this was the sheriff and his number-one deputy; something had to be really wrong.
Benita, back on 13, had just hit a gorgeous approach shot, which her three bosom buddies admired. When she heard the cart, saw who was in it, she dropped her club. There’d been enough threats on Will’s life these last ten years. She just knew. So did the others.
She said nothing as Rick stopped and climbed out.
“Benita, I am so sorry to tell you this.”
“He’s gone, isn’t he?”
Rick nodded. “Yes, yes he is.”
Coop, now also out, walked up alongside Rick.
“How?” Benita remained calm, although she was as white as paste.
“Sniper. One shot clean through the heart. At least he didn’t suffer.”
She fought her tears. The rest of the foursome—Folly Steinhauser, Alicia Palmer, and BoomBoom Cray croft—quietly came up to Benita’s side.
Alicia put her arm around Benita’s waist and said, “Let me drive you home, honey.”
“Yes.” Benita’s voice faded.
“The reporters.” Folly’s mind worked quickly. “Girls, we need to be there to get rid of them.”
“We can take turns.” BoomBoom, who was tall, commanding, and beautiful, knew how to handle most situations, as did Alicia, a former movie star in the seventies and eighties.
“You’re right,” Folly agreed.
“Before anyone leaves, Benita, if you can stand it, it would be very helpful if you could answer a few questions.”
“Yes.” A tear splashed on her lemon-colored golf shirt.
“Have there been threats recently?”
“No. In fact, we were just talking about that last night. We thought that maybe those nutcases finally realized violence is counterproductive.”
“Any problems apart from the abortion extremists? A disgruntled employee or unbalanced patient, debts?” No.
“Any old enemies from the past that you can recall?”
She thought as she knelt down to pick up her club. “Harvey Tillach. Harvey hated him, but they avoided each other.”
No reason to inquire about why Harvey hated Will Wylde, since everyone knew that Harvey, also a doctor, had accused Will of seducing his then wife. An accusation that Will hotly denied, but the damage had been done, because rumors take on a life of their own.
Although, in truth, sexual peccadilloes rarely elicited the tongue-clicking found in the Puritan states. The people upset were the people directly involved. Most Southerners assume nature is taking its course and best to stay out of it.
Alicia, firmly but with respect, said, “Sheriff, let me take her home. This is a staggering blow.”
He nodded, then added, “Benita, I’ll need to question you again. I truly am sorry.”
“I know, Rick, I know you are. Everybody loved Will.”
BoomBoom said to Rick and Coop, “Let us know if there’s anything we can do, including strangle the killer.”
Coop had grown fond of BoomBoom. “You’ll have to get a ticket and stand in line for that. But if we need you, I’ll call. Right now, do anything you can for Benita. It’s going to be tough. A media circus.”
Folly shook her head silently, fearing the onslaught, as Alicia gently led Benita to one of the golf carts.
As the two carts drove off, Rick turned to Coop. “She’s a good woman. She deserves better.”
The sheriff and his deputy knew the wife is often a prime suspect in the husband’s murder. But these two didn’t think Benita Wylde had killed her husband. For one thing, she was on the golf course at the time of the murder. For another thing, it was a happy marriage. Whoever did kill the doctor knew the layout of the office buildings, his schedule, and could drive away without calling attention to himself.
They climbed back into the squat golf cart. Rick drove, the noisy little engine competing with the usual sounds of a late afternoon on a prestigious golf course.
Coop flipped open her notebook. “Want to give me names to question?”
“In a minute. The first thing we’ve got to do is pull in as many people as we can on this case. Right now it’s a local murder. If the FBI agent for our territory decides this is a civil-rights violation, then we have to deal with the agency.”
Coop grimaced, since the feds often treated local law-enforcement people like water bugs. “Been there. Done that. Remember the fuss five years ago when the pro-life people barricaded Will’s clinic? Boom! Civil-rights violations, because he couldn’t operate his business. Let’s hope this is just murder.”
“Yep, sure as shooting.” He realized what he’d said but grinned despite himself. “Sorry.”
4
Death and destruction didn’t seem to shake up country people quite as much as it did their city cousins. The cycle of the seasons, the thrilling rebirth of spring and the rich harvests of fall, allowed people to know that death and life weave together each day. Not that anyone celebrated the untimely death of Dr. Will Wylde, but the people it sent off into the deep end were only those hovering on the precipice anyway. His family and friends, overwhelmed by deep grief, remained calm. It had always been in the back of their minds that this could happen, but nothing really prepares one for the dolorous reality.
Carla Paulson was all but suffering grand mal seizures because of the shooting. Weeping, she called Tazio Chappars, informing her that she wouldn’t be at the construction site today, Friday, but she advised—which meant ordered—Tazio to go.
The house, which was situated on a three-hundred-foot-high knoll, commanded 270-degree views. The 90-degree area behind the house was filled with large rock outcroppings, which blocked the view in that direction. Carla, who was determined to improve nature, had worked on drawings with a San Francisco landscape company to stick wondrous plants in crevices. Eventually, the outcroppings would underline Carla’s vibrant creativity That was the plan. Surely, a spread in Garden Design would follow.
Interior work goes more slowly than the initial framing up and roofing, and this house proved no exception.
Tazio and Mike McElvoy stood in the cavernous living room while the marble, green-veined and hideously expensive, was being placed around the fireplace. The Italian workmen had a gift for the task.
With arms folded across his chest, Mike watched Butch Olivera supervise. One tiny crack meant another slab would be cut, which would mean more delay, more expense. Carla would spend money, but she possessed little tolerance for other people’s mistakes. Then, too, she harbored the not entirely unfounded suspicion that she might be charged more than the “old families”—or “tired blood,” as she dubbed those Virginians only too ready to recite their pedigree. Her pedigree was her bank balance; it was also a crowbar to open doors and windows.
“Lattimores used the same marble when they built Raven’s Roost.” Mike enjoyed passing on these tidbits. “She’s already adding a wing. Penny can’t stop building.”
Tazio had been a guest of the Lattimores from time to time, so she already knew this. She simply smiled. Why take away Mike’s little moment? “Penny and Marvin are a bit more understated than the Paulsons.”
“Christ.” Mike shook his head. “Waste. That’s what I see but, hey, gives me a job.”
“Me too.” Tazio smiled, hoping this meeting wouldn’t be lengthy, for Mike liked to hear himself talk.
The more he talked, the smarter he thought he was—not that he was stupid, but he needed attention.
“Let’s go to the kitchen.”
They walked through the living room, which was being painted then sponged to create a dappled effect. They passed from there through the “transition room,” as Carla called it. It was really a discreet bar. Then they moved into a truly magnificent country kitchen.