A Luring Murder (15 page)

Sheriff Anderson waved us toward the back of the office. He turned so his back was toward Peterman.

“There’s a distinct conflict of interest here. I’ve known Wes all my life.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. Peterman was still slumped over in his chair, head in hands.

“I would appreciate if you two would do the questioning. My impartiality is blown all to hell here.”

I put a hand on his shoulder and nodded. I could sympathize with his situation. Unfortunately, I’d been in a similar situation with my Chief, and had I been able to get out of asking him tough questions, I would have gladly.

Louise sat on the edge of the sheriff’s desk. I positioned myself in the chair next to Mr. Peterman. He didn’t raise his head to look at either of us.

“Mr. Peterman,” Louise said. “I’m sorry that we had to bring you in. This must be very difficult for you.”

His breath stuttered through his hands. “You can’t even imagine.”

He sat back in the chair. His eyes puffed to the point of swelling closed.

“We have to ask you some questions,” I said.

He gave a half hysterical laugh and lifted his arms palms up and gestured around the jailhouse.

“I kind of figured.”

“What were you and Bruce McMahan fighting about after the first murder?”

He started at my bluntness. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You were observed having an animated argument with Mr. McMahan.”

Guilt turned my stomach when I saw the shock on his face. I pushed the feeling away. My feelings toward Wes Peterman were irrelevant, but he looked so frail.

“The person who provided us with this bit of information, claims that you looked as though you wanted to hit him or worse.”

A vein at the temple of his head pulsed with his anger. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He gritted through his teeth. “Yes, we had an argument, but your witness is mistaken about the intensity.”

Louise assumed her usual roll as good cop.

“Mr. Peterman, why don’t you tell us your perspective of what happened.”

“It’s not my perspective, it’s the truth. Since there are only two people who know what we argued about, I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Louise dipped her head in acknowledgement of the truth.

Wes sagged back in his chair, and his shoulders slumped forward.

“Bruce was upset with me, because I told you two that I had seen him the morning of Warren’s murder.”

His eyes flicked from Louise to me as if wanting to see if we believed his words. Whether he found what he was looking for, or not, he continued.

“He said that I knew him better than that. That he would never be involved in a murder. He was upset that you two talked to his wife.”

Wes clenched his right hand.

“Bruce grabbed me by the arm and told me I was mistaken about seeing him. But I wasn’t, and I told him so. I’m up there in years, but I don’t wear glasses, and I don’t need them. He was there that morning. He kept trying to convince me that I was wrong.”

Wes raised both hands in front of him as if holding someone in his grip. His fists shook with the effort to hold his invisible foe.

He gripped both my arms and shook me. “You’re mistaken, you blind, old, fool.” That’s when I pulled away from him and lost my temper.”

His weathered hands relaxed and dropped back to his lap.

“I did lose my temper. I told him he could pack up his family and leave. I told him he wouldn’t be welcome next year.”

He let out another stuttering breath.

“That’s when I left.” He rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t mean it. He could have come back next year.”

Tears dripped down his face. He turned his eyes to Louise.

“Do you think he knew I wasn’t serious?”

“I think he did,” Louise said.

“Was that the last time you saw Mr. McMahan?” I asked.

He blinked at me like a caged rabbit. “No. I saw him again at the fish fry, though we didn’t speak. Men can be mule-headed when we want to be.”

“You didn’t see him last night?” I said.

“No.”

“He didn’t confront you again?”

“No.”

“Where were you last night?”

“I… I had maintenance to do around the resort.” Doubt seemed to cloud his response, like he wasn’t sure that he’d actually done maintenance.

“Maintenance that required you to go to the garbage pile?” I wasn’t prepared to let up just yet.

“No!” Mr. Peterman turned and snapped the word at me like a dog on a chain reaching for a rat sniffing around it’s bone.

I slid back in my chair with raised eyebrows and slowly crossed my legs.

He huffed out deep breaths.

“You do have a temper don’t you, Mr. Peterman?” Louise folded her arms over her chest.

“She pushed me too far.”

“Did Bruce McMahan push you too far?” Louise asked.

His eyes went wide. “No. That is something I would never do. I would never kill anyone.”

He choked out another sob and sagged in his seat. “Yes, I have a temper. No, I did not kill him. I did lose my temper at Bruce, but I’m all bark. I swear. I would never leave those beautiful boys without a father.”

He wept with his hands covering his face. Louise pushed herself off the edge of the desk and indicated that I should join her.

I followed obediently. We huddled a few feet away.

“I think we can let him go.”

A protest jumped to my lips, but before it could escape, Louise put up a halting hand.

“At least until we can come up with more substantial evidence. I don’t believe he’s a mad serial killer. If he killed McMahan, it was a moment of opportunity. Even if we did arrest him no judge would hold him. He’s a business owner and not likely to flee.”

I knew she had made up her mind on the matter, but she would wait until I agreed. There are times that I can be spiteful and childish. This was one of those times. The childish streak in me made her wait for an answer, even though I knew I’d agree.

When I had pretended to debate for a respectable amount of time, I acquiesced.

“Fine. He can go.”

“Mr. Peterman,” Louise said. “You’re free to go.”

Grateful tears streamed down his face.

“Will you make yourself available to DNA testing, or any other tests that Digs may need?” I asked.

He pushed to the edge of his seat. “Yes. Anything you need. Anything.”

I approached his chair and stuck out my hand. He put his hand in mine as if it might be snapped off.

“No hard feelings, Mr. Peterman.”

He stood. “None.” He shook my hand. “Your husband was right. You are good at what you do.”

My cheeks warmed in a blush. I’m not used to hearing compliments directed at me.

“Thank you.”

Sheriff Anderson reappeared when he heard Wes Peterman close the front door.

“He’s gone,” Anderson said. “You’ve cleared him then?”

“Not quite,” I said. “He’s promised to make himself available for any DNA testing that might need to be done.”

Anderson unlocked his desk drawer removed the pistol from his belt and locked it in the drawer. “This is ridiculous just because someone saw Wes arguing with Bruce?”

“No.” I tossed the newspaper from Leona McMahan on the desk in front of him. He placed a hand on either side of the paper and leaned over to read.

“Not a great picture of me, but a nice one of Claire and Wes. I’ll have to ask Pammy to cut me out and give them a copy for their resort book.”

He moved his thumb over his face and nodded his approval.

“Sheriff.” Louise extracted the paper from beneath his hand. “Bruce McMahan saw this photo and had a fit. His wife said he ranted, “You think you know someone.” Which means he knew something about the first murder.”

“Of course, you are in the photo too Sheriff. Where were you this morning?” I asked.

“What!” He stamped his hand on the desk. “You’re not serious.”

“Yes, I am serious.” I thrust my accusing finger toward the picture of the Sheriff. We started with Mr. Peterman only because someone saw him arguing with the victim. That doesn’t mean we ignore the other two possible suspects.”

“Suspects?” He asked. “If I’m not mistaken you two aren’t officially investigating this murder.”

He tucked his hands under his armpits and stood to his full height. I could see why he kept being elected Sheriff. He made an imposing figure, when he wanted to be intimidating.

“Yes, I’ve asked for your help, but I think you just over stepped the bounds of professional courtesy.”

Louise let out a heavy sigh and then gave me a look that let me know I’d blown it bad. Only I could fuck up an investigation beyond repair. All the swelling of pride I’d felt at Mr. Peterman’s parting compliment withered under the glare of Louise’s disapproval.”

We were too close in the investigation to be tossed out on our asses now. There was only one thing to be done. I’d have to suck it up and grovel. I would have to try to salvage what, if anything, was left of our, or more to the point my, credibility.

“I apologize.”

That stung like ripping a Band-Aid off the hairy part of your arm.

“I wanted to see your reaction.”

It was a softball attempt at an excuse. I knew it and so did he.

“I was charging through this investigation, like I would have at home, and I got a little carried away.”

I waited with my good Catholic girl smile on my face, while he decided if he would soft lob my volley back to me, or smash it into my face.

Either way, I’d still have to deal with the retribution of Louise whose manicured nails were drumming out my death knell on her folded arms. My punishment would be painful and slow. I could read it on her face.

He dropped his chin to his chest and grunted.

“No, I’m sorry. Things aren’t supposed to be like this here. Multiple murders only happen in big cities. I guess my patience is running low, and I’m getting a little prickly myself.”

I leaned in relief on the edge of the desk. A little too close to Louise. My arm brushed against her, and she pinched the flabby back part of my arm.

A squeak escaped me before I could squelch it. Anderson’s head jerked up and his eyes narrowed. I rubbed the back of my arm trying to dissipate the burning pain.

“Sorry, I have the hiccups.”

The answer seemed to satisfy him. He melted into his office chair, yanked open the bottom drawer, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He tilted the bottom toward us as if to ask if we wanted any. We both shook our heads. He filled his coffee cup, drained it, then looked up at us.

“Where do we go from here?”

“We wait for Digs,” I said. “We have nothing to go on until we know if he’s found anything.”

Sheriff Anderson filled his coffee cup again. Instead of draining the cup he leaned back in his chair, and wrapped his hands around the mug as if he were warming his hands. He rocked slowly.

“Sounds like a plan.”

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Once outside, I turned to Louise. “We’re not really going to sit around and wait are we?”

Louise’s flawless face wrinkled slightly at the corners of her mouth. “Not a chance.”

“Where to, Kimosabe?”

“Do you think the Patrick and Samantha have a boat?”

“Can’t we rule Patrick out?” I asked.

“Afraid not.”

“I don’t think he did it, and he’s such a nice guy.”

“Catherine, personal feelings are irrelevant in an investigation.”

“Like hell they are. We use our instinct all the time, and you know it.”

“I still don’t buy his supportive husband routine. Until I find irrefutable evidence that he’s not the murderer, I can’t get past the fact that his wife was having an affair with the deceased. He has the most motive for killing him.”

“And what would his motive be for killing McMahan?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the two murders aren’t even connected. Maybe it was Peterman who lost his temper and killed him, and we jumped to the conclusion that they’re related.”

This notion was preposterous. “So you’re saying that two murders back to back in the same town–a town that has never in its history had a murder–are just coincidental? I’m afraid I have to disagree with you, Ms. Louise.”

She slid into the front seat of my car and closed the door. There was no way she would escape me that easy. After all, I had the keys to this chariot. I popped the handle and slid in behind the wheel.

I closed the door, folded my hands on my lap, and turned a carefully, neutral face toward her.

She let out an audible breath. “I’m not saying it’s a coincidence. It’s just. . .” Louise turned her eyes skyward, and found the words she was looking for, “bad timing.”

My fingers found the key and roared the engine into life. “That’s rich, Louise.”

“Think about it, Catherine. We have nothing to connect the two except a vague comment from the second victim who happened to be observed near the first crime scene, which was a public place I’d like to point out.”

I knew she was right though I didn’t want to admit it out loud. In my line of work, I’d had the unfortunate realization that in life things don’t always make sense. I put the transmission into reverse and bumped out of the jail parking lot.

“If King does have a boat,” I said. “He’s not keeping it landlocked at the ranch.”

“Where then?” Louise asked.

“The local marina?”

“They have a marina?” She asked.

“Of course. Doesn’t every small town in America have a marina?”

“I guess.” She cracked a smile in return. An unspoken understanding formed between us.

The marina wasn’t much more than a glorified bait shop on a section of water front property with boat parts for sale, and a few docks in the water out back to moor boats.

From the looks of the shanty with the hand lettered, plank sign marked office over the door, this wasn’t the country club type of marina. When we stepped inside, the spongy floorboards beneath my feet, and the peeling paint on the walls, confirmed my assessment.

An old man, who from the looks of him must be named Noah, greeted us with a cheery, “How you pretty ladies doin’ today?”

We both smiled goofy grins at the lame compliment. I couldn’t help but smile at this hunched back, old man. He resembled something akin to a friendly elf, with gray twinkling eyes, hooded and framed by elephant skin folds, and long, feathery white brows. His wide mouth smile would have been completely toothless had it not been for a row of molars on the right side of his face. There were more hairs sprouting from his ears than from his head.

“What can I help you pretty ladies with?”

Louise stepped forward and rested her hands on the counter. “Sir, we’re with the Saint Paul Police Department.”

She badged him. He made an “O” with his mouth and squinted at her shield.

“We were wondering if you could give us some information.”

“Saint Paul?” He drummed the counter with his fingertips. “I could tell you stories about Saint Paul. Especially the women.”

He waggled his brows and gave a high pitched, wheezy, “hee, hee.” Then he reached out and tweaked her cheek.

Louise looked at me with the, is he serious, face. My mouth gaped like a goldfish that’d just committed suicide by jumping out on the kitchen counter. Stunned amusement was the only emotion I could muster.

“I helped install the traffic lights up there when I was a young man.” He continued without a hint of realization, or perhaps without care, of our consternation. “I’ve spent my fair share of time in Saint Paul.”

My assessment of his age couldn’t be too far off the bullseye if he installed traffic lights in Saint Paul. He’d probably taken his horse and buggy to work. Or as I suspected he landed in Saint Paul when the water receded, and the Ark dropped him off.

“Some of those girls in Saint Paul were pretty fast women.”

Someone must have flashed an ankle at him once.

He gave her cheek another pinch.

“Sir.” Louise was flustered. A rare accomplishment, for which I admired the old man and his tweaking fingers. “Would you be able to tell us if Patrick King has a boat moored here at the marina?”

“Sure he does.” He snapped his fingers in a rapid-fire click, click, click while she spoke. “There was a saloon in Saint Paul I used to go to. . . What was it called?”

He scratched his bald, spotted, head.

“Oh, you’d think I would remember the name. I spent so much time there. Not that I was a drunkard mind you, but I was young. My friends and I played a hand or two of cards there.”

“Where is the boat?” I snapped.

There were only so many Woebegone stories I could take. “We need to see the boat today.”

Louise gave me a disapproving glare. She was as irritated by the rambling, pinching, old man as I was, though she’d never let it show. I, on the other hand, had a husband waiting for me. All I wanted was to get this pointless search over with as quick as possible.

He shook his finger at me. “You ask nice, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“You shake that finger at me again, and I’ll break it off. Maybe I should haul your butt in for obstruction of justice.” My retort had surprised even me. It was more of a knee-jerk reaction than an actual threat. Part of me was worried that there was a pinch waiting for me at the end of that bony finger. The Catholic school graduate in me most feared that it wouldn’t be my cheek he’d nab but my ear like Sister Bethany in third period English my sophomore year.

My comments more than surprised Louise, they pissed her off. Her glare turned from disapproving, to icy daggers.

“You just go right ahead and try it young lady.” The finger wagged at me with reckless abandon. “I’ll tell the judge, who I’ve seen from diapered right through to married, what a brat you are. I’m sure he’ll let me go.”

“A brat!” I wagged my finger back at him. “You listen to me, old man – ”

“Catherine.” Louise gripped my shoulder and hauled me away from the counter before I could climb over. “Go wait outside.”

“What? No!”

“Catherine!”

I knew an order when I heard one. She didn’t need to add the “or else” for me to understand she meant what she’d said. My bottom lip popped up over my upper in a childish pout. The phrase,
he started it
, ran through my mind, and made it to my tongue, but my lips were smart enough to remain closed.

I went outside and waited like the scolded child I was, and kicked rocks down the hill into the lake. My Grandmother used to wag her finger like Noah had wagged his skeleton finger at me. It was one of my least favorite childhood traumas–being scolded by Grandma with her finger wagging, like a dog’s tail at dinner, simply because I decided to be helpful and weed her garden.

To my five-year-old eyes they looked like weeds. Had she let me help her in the first place, she could have showed me what was a weed and what was a plant. It was the first time Grandma had ever raised her voice at me. She even middle named me. No matter how old I get the trauma remains new.

Louise finally emerged from Noah’s house-of-Saint Paul-saloon-history and hobbled toward me.

“Did Noah finally give you the location of the boat?”

“Noah?”

I shrugged. “He looked old enough.”

“Do you have to cause an incident everywhere we go?” She hobbled past me. “He was a nice enough old man.”

“Oh yeah? Your cheek seems a bit pinker than normal. Is that a new blush you’re using?”

She ran the back of her fingers over her cheek. “Okay, that part was annoying. Still he was sweet.”

We continued our parade toward the row of moored boats.

“I know, and I am sorry. I just can’t seem to stop myself sometimes.”

“Try.” She put on the breaks and turned to look at me. “Hard.”

“I am. I will. I promise,” I held up my hand in a three fingered boy-scout oath, then crossed my heart. “Did he tell you where the boat is moored?”

“Yes, because I asked him nicely.”

“Well, I knew if anyone could do it, you could.” I gave her a playful pinch on her cheek, which she slapped away. “You excel at being the queen of tact.”

She extended her middle finger.

“Yes, Louise, I do like that nail polish shade on you. It is your color.”

She ignored me and proceeded down to the docks. A few close calls made me worry that she wouldn’t make it down the mud slicked, gravel path with her cane. We finally made it to the bottom of the hill, without incident.

“This is it,” she said and pointed to a paddle mounted to a rotted pole at the end of one of the docks. Even without help from Noah it would have been easy to figure out this was the King’s slip. The paddle had been artfully painted with the slip number in a flowing script.

“Unlucky number thirteen.” Two boats bobbed at the end of the dock. “Which one’s theirs?”

“Both.”

One looked like a sports car on the water, sleek and fast, with a bullet shape. The other was a large flat-bottomed boat that looked like a houseboat. The cabin was a clear glass enclosure with a wheelhouse on the second level. Inside the boat was decked out with couches and a bar. Shear drapes had been neatly pulled back but could easily be closed against the harsh sunlight.

“Nice,” I said. “If Gavin had rented one of those, I wouldn’t have such a problem going fishing with him.”

“Yeah, that’s one hot ride,” Louise said.

I turned and realized Louise was looking at the sports car.

“I was talking about the other one.”

“Oh.” She looked at the boat and raised her eyebrows. “That’s a nice boat too.”

“Uh, huh. Which one do you think is the best bet for murder?”

“Yours.”

“Why mine?” I don’t know why I was indignant; this boat wasn’t really my boat. “Yours could have been the murder boat.”

“There are only two seats in mine. There’s no room for the victim to fall backward without falling out of the boat.”

Damn it. Louise’s uncanny ability to swing a wild hammer and hit the nail head every time sent a ripple of irritation over me. Maybe it was this place, or maybe it was the shadow of Gavin waiting for me to be done that distracted me. Whatever the problem, my game was not one hundred percent on par.

Louise led the way down the dock.

“Be careful,” I said. “It looks wet and slippery.”

The planks glistened with a slight moldy green tint as each floating section undulated from side to side with her footsteps.

I stayed rooted on the shore so my counter steps didn’t create more movement than my gimpy partner could manage.

“I’m serious, Louise. You be careful.”

“Cluck, cluck, cluck. I’m fine.” She wobbled a few more steps and slipped on her ass.

“Yep, you’re fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Do you want me to help you up or are you still fine?”

She held her hand up in the air toward me. “Please help.”

Truth to tell, her cry for help surprised me. I took a tentative step onto the first floating section, steadied myself, hustled to where Louise laid sprawled in the particularly nasty patch of celery colored mold, then helped her to her feet.

“You okay?”

She put her weight on her injured leg to test the damage. “That wasn’t fun, but I think my leg’s okay.”

No weakness in any way should be tattooed on her ass. “When we’re done here you’re taking some R&R – as in rear and rear. That means you, on yours, in front of a TV or with a book.”

“Deal.”

A quick handshake sealed the deal.

We stopped at the edge of the big flat boat and did a quick visual sweep around the glass enclosure.

“Ethical dilemma.” Louise stretched her arm across my chest before I could hop from the dock onto the deck that ran around the outside of the enclosure. “We can’t search without probable cause.”

“We have cause.”