Black Princess Mystery (17 page)

“She was
very good,” said the elderly lady. “I used to visit Jack Smit twice a week and
he was very taken with Henrietta. She has an engaging personality.”

“Oh,
that’s nice,” said Tasheka. “And how was the quality of her care, if you don’t
mind me asking?”

“No, I
don’t mind you asking,” she said. “Jack had a big cyst on his jaw and was
dreadfully self-conscious about it, but Henrietta never minded it and made him
feel special. He used to give her little gifts and a few extra dollars here and
there. I think he was in love with her, but you know how old men are around
young women. They never lose their spunk, do they, dear?”

“That’s a
fact,” said Tasheka. “So you would recommend her? In your opinion, she never
lost her temper or anything?”

“Not that
I know of. And Jack thought enough of Henrietta to make her the benefactor in
his will.”

“He did?”
Tasheka asked, surprised. “I didn’t know she came into money. Perhaps she
doesn’t need to work anymore.”

“She
didn’t come into money,” Mrs. Hatch said with the pleasure people have when
possessing inside information. “Jack Smit worked hard his whole life and never
married. He wasn’t a big earner, but he saved every cent and invested it. By
the time he retired, he had a nice little nest egg. Then, wouldn’t you know it,
he got sick. He hated his life because he was stuck inside on that machine all
the time, but Henrietta was good for him. I know they played a million games of
checkers. He almost always won. Jack was very good at checkers, you know.”

“He
mentioned her in the will?” Tasheka said, trying to steer Mrs. Hatch back to
the subject at hand.

“He made
her the sole heir,” Mrs. Hatch noted. “It was worth over two-hundred thousand
dollars.”

Tasheka
was shocked by the revelation. “But she never received it?”

“No, she
didn’t. Jack told me just before he died that he had changed the will. I was
the one who had to tell Henrietta after the funeral.”

“Did she
know she was in the will?”

“Yes. She
knew that for months before he died.”

“I see.
How did Mr. Smit die, Mrs. Hatch?”

“He
stopped breathing in his sleep. The doctors said it could happen any time, but
it was still a shock to Henrietta when she found him like that in the morning.
She had been asleep on the couch just outside his room, after all.”

“You say
he changed his will,” Tasheka said. “Who did he give his money to?”

“He only
mentioned it once,” said the old woman, still as sharp as a tack. “It was
called the Henderson Fund. One of my nieces married a Henderson, that’s why I
recall it. I remember two men brought the papers for him to sign. There was a
lawyer in a suit, and a good-looking man with reddish brown hair.”

“Reddish
brown hair?” Tasheka said, narrowing her eyes. “Was he tall and slim with
perfect teeth and a small scar over his right eyebrow?”

“That’s
him.”

“Well,
thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Hatch.”

“I think
Henrietta’s a good worker, she was just very upset. Sort of like having the
carpet pulled out from under your feet and all that. I don’t blame her for
being angry.”

“I
understand.”

Mrs. Hatch
laughed. “Daddy used to have an expression for things like that. He’d say, ‘It
could drive you to drink or it could drive you to murder.’ Know what I mean?”

“Yes, of
course. Thank you, Mrs. Hatch.”

They said
good bye and hung up. Tasheka chewed on the end of her pen as she laid down the
telephone. She sat in bed with her knees crooked up and doodled on her notepad.
She wrote the suspects in her notebook: Mike Power, Jake Thompson, and now
Henrietta Gable. But Mike Power had an alibi. Could Gina be trusted, though, as
her job depended on Mike avoiding trouble? And Jake Thompson had cast the
priest a hateful look the morning Tasheka discovered the body. Had he known the
priest was already dead, as the murderer must, why would he have glared in such
a way at the man he thought was Father Tim? Maybe Mike Power’s alibi wouldn’t
hold up. Maybe Henrietta Gable had written the death threat and carried out the
execution. Maybe Henrietta Gable was a female serial killer and Tasheka, by
sheer chance, had crossed paths with one of the femme fatales she was studying.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. No, Henrietta certainly couldn’t be discounted, but it was
all circumstantial evidence.

“Who will
McNab concentrate on?” Tasheka muttered.

Tasheka
surfed the Internet and then went to the Lakeside Golf Course website. It was a
well designed site with numerous categories ranging from playing times and membership
fees to a history of the club itself. Tasheka, used to research at school,
immersed herself in the information. Most notable was the recent expansion of
the eighteenth hole. Through a contribution from several sources, the course
was radically improved by combining the old eighteenth hole and the corner of
the lake into a spectacular par five, complete with Dead Man’s Oak. Tasheka
continued reading, suddenly noticing in fine print that the ‘Henderson Fund’
had been acknowledged as a contributor.

For the
next hour, she read everything on the site but saw no ‘Henderson’ reference
except that the fund helped pay for the reworking of the final hole. Tasheka
mulled over this information for the rest of the day, even to the point of
total distraction. When she went to bed, the possible connections continued to
form in her mind.

The next
morning, able to contain her curiosity no longer, she called Don Alcott,
President of the Lakeside Golf Club, and asked him point blank about the
Henderson Fund. He was reluctant to discuss it and made excuses about
confidentiality.

“If you
can’t tell me about it,” Tasheka said, “I’ll have to start asking around.”

“I
shouldn’t be discussing these things,” said the president, “but I certainly
don’t want anyone questioning the legality of anything we do here. We run an
above-board organization.”

“Which
means transparency,” Tasheka said firmly. “Who runs the Henderson Fund, Mr.
Alcott?”

Assuredly
realizing she would not relent, he explained the Henderson Fund in detail. “I’d
rather you didn’t talk about this in public,” he said.

“Yes, of
course,” she agreed, intrigued by the story he had just related.

When she
walked downstairs, her mother perked up. “There’s a meeting at the community
center tonight and everyone is asked to attend.”

“Meeting?
Why?”

“Well,
dear, a man from our village has been murdered. Until they find the killer, it
has to be assumed that he’s still around and may strike again. They’re hoping
to calm everyone’s nerves.” They moved into the bright, spacious kitchen. “Tell
me more about school.”

“School?
It’s hard to even think about school.”

“Seeing
what you did must have been very traumatic.”

“To say
the least.”

Mother and
daughter spent the rest of the day relying on each for comfort and a sense of
security. That evening Tasheka drove with her mother to the Lakeside Community
Center and was surprised to see Thorston’s car parked in front. The lot was
full and a woman in her early twenties, her face contorted in stunned fear and
self-importance, held the door open for the late arrivals. Tasheka walked up
the steps, paused at the threshold to wait for her mother, and then entered a
room filled with over one hundred people. It was hot and stuffy inside, though
the villagers wore winter clothes and sat attentively on their seats. Everyone
turned simultaneously to Tasheka and Mrs. Green, and the two women nodded
respectfully, then walked to the back of the room where Henrietta Gable sat
near Matt. On the other side of the room, Mike Power sat at an end chair and in
front of him were Jake and Linda Thompson.

Thorston
came into the building and stood at the front. When he lifted his hands most
hushed, and then the rest of the voices slowly trailed off into silence.
Thorston looked directly at Tasheka in the back, smiled when she nodded to him,
and then gathered himself.

“Thank you
for coming,” he said to the assembly. “My name is Thorston Henry, and I am a
detective on this case. I am working with Detective Bill McNab. He’s been with
the force for over thirty years. We will catch the person responsible for this
crime.” He looked around the room with unwavering certainty. “If any of you
would like to contact either Detective McNab or me, feel free to call either of
us at the station. An unnamed party has also posted a fifty thousand dollar
reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of the
perpetrator.” Thorston wrote his email address on the chalkboard. “If anyone
would like to leave anonymous information, feel free to send it to my email, or
call or write.” He sat on the table. “We want to work with you to solve this
crime, so we need everyone’s cooperation. If you have any questions, please,
feel free.”

“Is this
an isolated thing,” Henrietta asked loudly from the back of the room, “or is
there a madman loose in Lakeside?”

Everyone
turned to her.

Henrietta
continued: “Is there a chance he’ll strike again?”

“Highly
unlikely,” said Thorston. “We’ve run this by our best men back at the
department and Detective McNab was also on the phone with three different experts.
They all said that with the description of the crime, it was their opinion that
this was a precise attack on a specific individual. Someone wanted to kill Tim
Murphy. I honestly don’t think any of you has anything to fear, but who knows
for sure? We would like everyone here to be especially vigilant until this
person is apprehended. Lock your windows and doors. Do not walk alone,
particularly at night. Try to have someone with you at all times. Watch out for
each other. Report anything suspicious, anything even the slightest bit out of
the ordinary. Help us catch this person.”

Matt
stood, taking off his stocking cap and holding it to his chest. “Have you
figured out how Father Murphy was killed?”

The crowd
listened silently for the detective’s response.

“I want
all of you to be open with me,” Thorston said, “so I’m going to be open with
you. If anything I say strikes a chord with you, please call, write or come
into the station.” He opened his briefcase. “Father Murphy was killed by a blow
to the back of the head. The weapon, according to our top analyst, was probably
a golf club, a nine-iron.”

Several
people glanced at Mike Power, some not even trying to hide the fact. He
squirmed like a big fish stuck in a small tank.

“Tim
Murphy was struck three times,” Thorston continued, “then assaulted with a
green ax. From the preliminary reports, it’s estimated that he died around nine-fifteen.”

“An ax?”
Linda Thompson asked with a pained look. “You can’t be serious.”

“A green
ax,” Thorston repeated. “It was a brutal murder, but, like I say, we believe it
was a specific assassination, not a random act.”

The crowd
shifted in their chairs, looking at each other like survivors in a lifeboat.
More of them glanced at Mike Power, but he pretended not to notice. Thorston
spoke awhile longer, answered questions until nine-fifteen, then adjourned the
meeting, again encouraging everyone to call with any information, no matter how
seemingly trivial. The crowd, sufficiently spooked but feigning courage, agreed
to help if they could, then left the hall in groups of two or more. Henrietta,
Mrs. Green and Tasheka were among the last to reach the door.

“Tasheka!”
Thorston called, raising his arm. “May I speak with you for a moment, please?”

“Yes, of
course,” she answered, stepping toward him.

“Can I
stay with you guys tonight?” Henrietta asked Mrs. Green. “Baxter is just
finishing a long run and I heard noises outside last night. I hate to be a
pest, but I’m not keen on staying alone. He’ll be home tomorrow morning.”

“Certainly
you can stay with us,” Mrs. Green said. “We have plenty of room.”

“Thank
you,” Henrietta said appreciatively. “I’ll just have to pick up a few things.”

Thorston
cleared his throat. “Since you have a companion, Mrs. Green, would it be
possible for me to drive Tasheka home? There’s something I wanted to ask her
that I forgot when we were at the office. It’s nothing big, but in a case like
this, it’s important to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”

Mrs. Green
looked at her daughter. “Tasheka, would that be all right with you?”

“Sure,”
she said, glancing at the handsome young detective.

“We’ll be
at the house in ten minutes or so, honey,” Mrs. Green said. “See you there.”

“Okay,
Momma.”

Mrs. Green
left with Henrietta and Tasheka waited until Thorston gathered his things. He
held his briefcase in one hand and opened the door for her with the other,
flashing his most charming smile as she walked past him.

“What did
you want to ask me?” she asked after they got into the car.

“How did I
do?” he questioned, intent on her assessment. “Do you think I accomplished
anything tonight?”