A Murder in Mohair (30 page)

“But I know. I know everything.”

Richard sighed and met his son's gaze, holding it. “It's going to be all right, Dale. If you just go home now. Why can't you just believe me and do as I say?”

Lucy knew from the look in his eye that if Richard won this debate it would be anything but all right for her. Her slow backward creeping had created a little gap, but led her to a dead end. She turned to find her back pressed against the edge of another countertop.

Richard's gaze slipped down to the workbench, and he selected a long, heavy piece of wood. It looked like a table leg or a piece of fencing. He tested the weight against a callused palm. Then he moved toward Lucy again, who skimmed along one side of the shop, like a small animal, trapped between a hunter and the proverbial hard place.

“Get help, Dale! Please . . . hurry!” she shouted.

Dale paused a moment, then turned. He looked about to go, to exit the shop from wherever he'd entered—a back door or window maybe?

But Richard was already marching toward her, the wooden weapon swung back over his head. Lucy wondered if she could dodge his blows long enough for help to come.

Suddenly Dale spun around and ran at his father. He jumped on Richard's back and grabbed for the wood. Richard gasped and fell, his son's arm squeezed around his throat.

Though the two were nearly the same height and Dale had an athletic build, Richard had at least thirty pounds on the boy. It was hardly an even match, but both fought fiercely.

Lucy screamed and narrowly squeezed clear of their tumbling, flailing bodies, nearly pulled down to the ground on top of them.

Gravity. The force of gravity, it just pulls you down,
Dale had said to her.

They rolled and grunted and fought each other in the narrow, dusty space. Lucy scrambled for some way to help Dale but couldn't think of anything. And she couldn't seem to step around or over them. Their twisting, grunting bodies entirely blocked her path to the door and her fate was the prize of whoever won this battle. A frightening thought.

“Police! Break it up! Put your hands up, where I can see them!”

Charles ran in, holding out his badge. Lucy saw a gun hanging from a holster under his jacket but he didn't reach for it.

Two uniformed police officers rushed in behind him. They grabbed Richard and Dale and pulled them up from the floor. “Hands above your heads,” they repeated.

Father and son raised their grimy hands, panting and gasping for air—their faces, clothing, even their hair covered in sawdust and sweat.

The uniformed officers quickly handcuffed the Gordons and led them out of the shop.

Charles made his way to Lucy, who had collapsed from sheer relief against a counter. He briefly touched her arm. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, still too shaken to speak. “What made you come back here?”

“You can take the cop off the beat, but you can't take the beat out of the cop.” He shrugged and offered a small smile. “Just an instinct. I drove by Maggie's shop and saw it was empty, then noticed the
CLOSED
sign on the door. That got my radar going.”

Maggie never closed, even if she was sick, or there was a hurricane blowing. Well, maybe a hurricane. But she stayed open until the last possible minute. He knew that about their mutual friend by now.

“So I drove by again, very slowly. I passed this place, too. Slow enough to notice a bike back here. And Richard's van. I thought that was suspicious, him being here. He should have been at the station with his wife. Or at home.”

“That's what I figured,” she said.

“What were you doing here?” His tone was a bit more stern now, she noticed.

“I have to confess, I was snooping. Looking for this.” She picked up one of the timers and showed it to him. “It was connected to the table saw. I think that's how Richard killed Jimmy Hubbard and appeared to be working at the same time, so he had a solid alibi.”

Charles nodded, taking the timer from her. She could see he got it. “Good one . . . but what motive would Richard have to kill Jimmy?”

This part was harder to say. “Kyle didn't die of a brain hemorrhage. It was an overdose. Or maybe a hemorrhage brought on by one. He worked at the theater for a while, before he died. Jimmy must have supplied him with the drugs that killed him. Richard found that out somehow and took revenge for his son's death.”

Charles let out a breath, his eyes narrowed. “Who told you the kid died from drugs?”

“Dale did. More or less. At the barbecue. He was drunk and babbling. I would have told you but it took me a while to put it together.”

Charles looked a bit cross now and folded his arms over his chest. “We can check that easily. Anything else you would have told me? Richard had an alibi for the night the psychic was murdered. An eyewitness saw him here. You don't think he did that, too, do you?”

“No, he didn't play that card again,” she said. “Though I think he despised Cassandra enough to do it.”

“It was Nora,” Charles replied. “She told everyone she was taking a sleeping pill, but she left their house, killed Cassandra, and went back home. Except she got blood in her car. And when she saw it, she threw out the mat. Her husband and son didn't get home until at least one thirty. They found her sleeping in bed. Dale had been at a party and Richard picked him up, after working here. That was well after Cassandra's time of death.”

Lucy shook her head. “I don't think it was Nora, either.” She knew Charles wouldn't believe her, but she felt sure of it now. “I think Dale killed Cassandra. I'm not exactly sure why. But there's a good chance Cassandra knew that Richard had killed Jimmy and was blackmailing the Gordons. Or threatened to. I think Dale found out and was trying to protect his parents. Maybe he was tired of seeing Cassandra exploit them.”

Charles didn't look like he was buying it so easily. But he was at least entertaining the idea. “So you think he went to the psychic's house, after his mother's session, and confronted her. And maybe she tried to brush him off, or they argued, and he flew into a rage?”

“Something like that. Dale was under tremendous pressure keeping the secret of his brother's death and knowing how his father had avenged that death by killing Jimmy. Cassandra was dragging out his family's agony. And torturing his parents even more,” Lucy said.

Charles considered this theory but didn't look as if he believed it quite yet. “So you think the night Cassandra died, Dale left the party, killed the psychic, and went back to the party. His father picked him up and took him home. None the wiser.”

“Yes . . . Richard picked him up, for some reason using Nora's car instead of his van. Richard was delivering a table and set of chairs early the next day. Maybe he'd already loaded the van and there wasn't any room for a passenger. I heard the bloodstain was on the passenger side of the car. Not the driver's.”

“Right, a bloodstain—Cassandra's blood, we believe—is on a mat from the passenger's side of Nora's car. But you think it's because Dale sat in that spot, with Richard driving,” Charles clarified.

“Yes, I do. And one of them must have found it later and tried to get rid of the evidence.”

“Richard was the one who told us he threw it away and ordered a new mat,” Charles said.

“He must have realized what Dale had done. But of course, he would do anything to protect his son. His only child now,” Lucy reminded him.

“Very true. There's a partial footprint in the stain. Just a scrap. But we might be able to get a match to one of Dale's shoes,” he mused aloud.

Charles seemed to believe her theory now. But Lucy was not pleased to have to figure out this puzzle, as bleak and heartbreaking as any Greek tragedy.

The night of the barbecue, Dale had been rambling about dominoes, falling one on top of the other, once the first was tipped over. The image fit so well for the demise of his family.

“One more thing,” Charles asked. “Does Maggie know you came here?”

Lucy shook her head. “She went to see Edie and she thought I went home.”

“And she doesn't know anything about this? About your theory?”

“Well . . . we talked about it a little. I talked, mostly. She just listened.”

He smiled a moment but didn't ask any more questions. He touched her shoulder and led her out to the light.

Police officers flanked both of the Gordons and helped them into the rear seats of two separate cruisers.

Charles took hold of the bike and rolled it along. “I'll give you a lift home. You can come to the station later and sign a statement.”

That plan suited Lucy just fine.

She longed to be back in her quiet, snug cottage. To stand under a long hot shower and scrub the sawdust from her skin and hair. And wash away the deep sadness she felt for the Gordons, if that was ever possible.

Maybe in a few hours, or even tomorrow, she'd catch up with Maggie and the rest of her friends. At that moment, Lucy felt too drained to tell anyone this story.

*  *  *

All of Lucy's
friends called and sent text messages after her ordeal with Richard, to see how she was doing. But all agreed that she'd wait until they were together to tell them the whole story. They did agree to skip the Thursday night meeting, since they were spending the weekend together. Even though their plans had been changed a bit.

Suzanne reported in a group e-mail on Tuesday night that the beach house would not be free and clear until Saturday around noon.

I know, bummer. But we can stay through Monday morning. It's only ten minutes from town. We get up early and zip back to the village to return to reality, by 9 a.m. (Phoebe, you can wear your PJs on the trip home. No problem.)

Lucy didn't mind the slight delay at all. She felt drained after her adventure and took it easy around the cottage and her office. Dara was staying with them all week, before she left for camp and Lucy was grateful for the little girl's cheerful, energetic company. She was happy to let Dara plan their days —going to the beach, washing the dogs, and making cookies—while Matt was at his office.

Matt had been very caring and solicitous all week, not even scolding Lucy for the risky behavior that had nearly gotten her killed. Lucy still sensed a subtle tension between them, though Dara's company was a good excuse to act as if everything was just peachy.

Still, Lucy wondered what Matt was really thinking and when he'd broach the sensitive topic she'd raised again. Would she have to remind him? That would be so discouraging. She didn't think that she even could.

Dara was leaving for camp Saturday morning and Lucy was relieved to be leaving with her friends at just about the same time. She was in the bedroom, packing her beach clothes and knitting after breakfast when Matt called up to her.

“Lucy? We're leaving. Dara wants to say goodbye.”

Lucy left her clothes in a heap and trotted downstairs. “And I want to say goodbye to Dara,” she said.

She had to be the cutest camper ever, Lucy thought. She wore a Camp Blue Lake T-shirt, polka dot shorts, and brand-new pink sneakers. A huge duffel bag and brand-new sleeping bag sat at her feet. A large green backpack with a frog face—a good-luck gift from Lucy—was slung over one shoulder. Her ponytail, which Lucy had spent considerable energy fastening just minutes before, was already hanging loose. Her smile, excited but nervous.

Lucy felt a little teary but forced a huge smile as she gave Dara a big hug. “You look awesome. Ready for action. Don't forget to write me and tell me everything. The postcards are all addressed and stamped, in your duffel.”

“I will,” Dara said. She put her arm around Lucy's neck and hugged back. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Lucy echoed. She stepped back and waved. She hoped that she didn't cry.

Dara was already hugging and kissing the dogs and didn't notice. Which was a good thing, Lucy thought.

Matt looked a little glassy-eyed, too, but he put on his gruff, cheerful face. “Come on, squirt. Time to get on the road. You go out to the truck. I'll be right there,” he said as Dara walked out the door.

He turned to Lucy and met her glance. “You have a great time. Should I call?”

Lucy shrugged. “Sure. But the cell service is not very good out there,” she added. Plum Island was barely fifteen miles from the cottage, but the service there was spotty.

“I'll try,” he promised. “I'm going to stay over with Will and Jen. But I'll be back tomorrow.”

“Good plan. Tell them I said hello.”

“I will.” He paused. Matt picked up Dara's duffel and sleeping bag with one arm and his small pack with the other. Lucy felt a heaviness in her heart. They were speaking to each other so . . . formally. What was going on here?

Matt felt it, too. She could tell. Finally he said, “Listen, I know things have been a little off with us since we had that talk. The night before Edie's barbecue? At least it feels that way to me.”

“Me, too,” Lucy admitted.

“Well . . . I don't want you to worry. We'll sort this out.” He shrugged. As if they had disagreed about who should empty the dishwasher. “I'm sorry to make you wait but . . . it's complicated.”

Lucy felt sucker-punched but tried to hide her reaction. “Must be. That's what you said before.” She didn't mean to sound snide, but her words had come out that way. He looked about to reply, then seemed to think better of answering her. Maybe that was just as well, she thought. This was hardly the time for some big, emotional showdown.

She guessed Matt had initiated this little chat to reassure her. But she felt anything but reassured.

“Hey . . . it's all right.” She shook her head. “We'll figure it out. Whatever . . .”

She also hated when people said “whatever.” Maybe even more than “it's complicated.” But she found herself scrambling for emotional cover in the face of an unexpected meteor hurtling down upon her.