Black Princess Mystery (33 page)

“What
coincidence?” he asked. “What pun?”

“I found
the body on December the nineteenth, but Father Tim had been killed the night
before, on December the eighteenth. The coincidence is that Father Tim also
died on the eighteenth hole. If one wanted to make a macabre pun, one could say
we are dealing with a murder on the eighteenth. See what I mean? A pun fit for
the Prince of Puns. Especially considering that the Lakeside Road is now part
of Fairway Drive. Another pun fit for the prince. Not only was it a murder on
the eighteenth, it was also a murder on the fairway.” She excitedly waved her
hand. “But it gets even better because what do people who pun love the most?
They love the elusive triple pun. And that’s what we have here because Father
Tim was murdered with a nine-iron, a golf club.” She laughed and clapped her
hands. “He was killed on the eighteenth fairway and very close to the
clubhouse, a place everyone refers to simply as ‘The Club.’ So you now have the
triple pun. Father Tim was killed by a golf club, it was a murder on the
fairway, and a murder on the eighteenth.” She squealed like a little girl.
“Don’t you see? The elusive triple pun!”

“Is that
all you have?”

“I knew it
was you from the very first,” Tasheka said.

“How?” he
challenged, shaking his head with incredulity. “Let’s hear it.”

“When I
led you to the body, my tracks stopped thirty feet from it. I did not point out
the hand, and you could not tell where it was from my tracks, yet you looked
directly at it. There were numerous bushes there and the hand was hard to see,
but you didn’t search, you just immediately saw it. In fact, from the vantage
point where you first stopped, it was impossible to see the hand. That’s why
you cleared away snow and branches, because you realized that others would
question how you managed to see it.”

“Really,
this is too much, Miss Green.”

“The
reason you saw the hand so quickly is because you knew exactly where Father Tim
was before you got there. You knew because it was you who killed him.”

“I killed
Father Tim Murphy?” McNab said, shaking his head. “Are you crazy?”

“No, you
are. Father Tim walked to Dead Man’s Oak every night at the same time, and you
knew this because you were aware of Father Tim’s complaints against people in
the village. You’re a vacuum cleaner for details. Knowing the routine of
someone who has been threatened would have been par for the course with you.”

“You’re
out of your mind.”

“On the
night of the murder, you were hiding behind the tree and struck Father Tim in
the back of the head. He staggered and fell down, his right hand was on the
ground and he was supporting his weight with it. With one swift swing you cut
it off with a hatchet because you wanted him to still be alive when it
happened. Then you smashed him across the skull two more times to finish the
foul deed. You put the club in Matt’s yard, walked away and let the snow take
care of the rest. I suspect you thought he might be buried until spring. You
would have months to distance yourself from the crime and spin your wheels
looking for a missing person.”

He
laughingly shook his head. “Continue.”

“As the
detective for this area, you were aware of everyone who had a grudge against
Father Tim. You had intervened personally with several of them. If he died, you
concluded, there was any number of people you could implicate, and if the
murder was never conclusively solved, so be it. You would have failed and could
lament it out loud, while in private you could rejoice in your own cunning at
not finding the murderer. It was all so simple, too. Look at the suspects you
had: Mike Power, Henrietta Gable, Matt Vendor, Jake Thompson, and William
Murphy. Five fine suspects, each one of them with a tragic flaw that made for a
pat motive.”

He leaned
against the wall. “This is very entertaining.”

“Thank
you,” Tasheka said, as if he had just given her a tremendous compliment. “Mike
Power is viciously competitive, Matt Vendor is super protective, Henrietta
Gable is full of spite, Jake Thompson is obsessively jealous, and William
Murphy was supposedly bent on revenge.”

“Indeed,”
he said, “five very good reasons.”

“Those are
five reasons to kill a man,” Tasheka continued, “but what if there was someone
who had not only one of these flaws, but all five? Does such a man exist,
Detective McNab? Could all these tragic flaws be personified by one man?” She
stared into his eyes with cold calculation. “Yes, such a man does exist.” She
slowly pointed directly at him. “You are such a man.”

“By this
estimation my faults are great indeed,” he said.

“Your
faults are great indeed, Detective McNab. The day I went to the police station,
I saw your office was full of trophies and plaques, all prominently displayed.
That meant you were not only competitive, you were successfully competitive,
and you were proud of it. Like Mike Power, you hate to lose.”

“Granted,”
he said, “I am a competitive person, and there’s nothing I hate worse than
losing, but that hardly makes me a murderer.”

“No,
competitiveness is not a fault. Not unless it is sullied by something foul.”

“You’re a
drama queen, Miss Green.”

“All five
of these faults,” Tasheka continued, “were manifested by you in your treatment
of your mother.”

“My
mother?” he asked with an uncomfortable laugh.

“Yes,
detective, your mother. That’s your great flaw and the great flaw of all men.
You are all hopelessly doomed to love and hate women. We are beautiful, and
soft, and comforting, but for great men such as yourself, Detective McNab, it’s
humiliating to realize you once lived inside another being, and she controlled
every aspect of your life. Yes, even the greatest of all men were once mewling,
puking little monkeys begging for their mommy’s tit. You need us. Your need our
love, our warmth, our approval.”

“Really?”
he said cynically.

“Really,”
Tasheka insisted. “The inescapable truth, Detective McNab, is that all men
begin their lives by emerging from a woman’s pussy and almost all men spend the
rest of their lives trying to get back in.”

“You are
one crude bitch, lady.”

“All men
are destined to have complex relationships with women,” Tasheka said, “and
you’re at the top of the class, William.”

“I suppose
the reverse is true also, Miss Green. Your father was a hero to you, bigger than
life. How does anyone measure up to him? I suspect no man will ever please you
for any length of time. You would destroy Thorston.”

“It is all
about Thorston, isn’t it, Bill? That was the final straw, wasn’t it? Someone
took your wife, someone took your mother, but Thorston was always there for
you. Your partner. The person you could count on in any situation. Yes, sir,
Thorston had your back. But then along came the bitch with the soft tits and
the sweet mouth. Hmm, Bill? Is that how you think of me? I bet it is. I took
him away from you. I took him away not because I was smarter, or more devoted,
or more loyal, no, I took him because I offer him the chance to crawl back in.”
She laughed like a madwoman. “Sorry, Bill, but you just can’t compete with that.
Women have all the power and, believe me, it is women who run this dog and pony
show called life.”

“You don’t
run me, honey. No woman has ever run me.”

“As if,”
Tasheka said, swatting away his comment as if it was a pesky mosquito. “Your
wife rocked your world, and I’ve rocked your world. But it’s your mother who is
the key to everything. She was the touchstone, the dynamic force driving you.”

“Do tell,”
McNab said sarcastically.

“All
right, I’ll show you how all five of the tragic flaws are personified by one
person, and that person is you, and your relationship with your mother is the
stage on which this tragedy was played out. Detective McNab, you were every bit
as competitive as Mike Power, and even more protective than Matt Vendor. In
fact, you were so protective of your wife that she felt controlled and left
you.”

McNab’s
eyes flared.

“You were
as jealous of your wife as Jake Thompson, and you displayed Henrietta’s spite
by disowning your mother and selling her house. Never speaking to your mother
again and ignoring her death was the way you exacted your revenge. Revenge!
Just as you speculated that William Murphy or even my mother may have killed
Father Tim out of revenge, you were actually the one who sought revenge.” She
smiled at him. “All the suspects had a character flaw that might have been a
motive for murder, but you have all these flaws, and in spades.”

McNab
shook his head. “You’re the murderer, Miss Green. I had trouble with my mother,
yes, but you wanted Tim Murphy dead.”

“Yes, I
did,” she admitted. “I wanted to kill him myself.”

“I know
you did.”

“I wanted
to kill him, but you did kill him. That’s the difference, Bill.”

He scowled
at her. “You have a great imagination. You should be a writer.”

“I’d
rather direct a movie.”

He frowned
at her with impatience. “You mentioned revenge. Yes, I was angry with my mother
and I took my revenge by never speaking to her again. But refusing to speak
with someone is not a crime. How do you extrapolate that to Tim Murphy? Why
would I kill a village priest?”

Tasheka
took a drink of milk. “Now there’s the rub, isn’t it? Everything depends on
that. Did you hate Father Tim so much that you could kill a priest? If so,
why?” She looked hard at him. “You’re competitive, protective, jealous,
spiteful, but what could cause you to seek revenge is such a horrible way?
Where is the final and most important piece of the puzzle, the motivation to
commit homicide?”

“Yes, Miss
Green,” he said, shaking his head. “Even if I am a vengeful person, which I am,
why would I want revenge on Tim Murphy? I can see why William Murphy wanted
revenge, and why your mother wanted revenge, but why me? I didn’t even know him
except in passing.”

Tasheka
pursed her lips. “You wanted revenge because he stayed at your home.”

“He stayed
at my home?” McNab said with a laugh. “Now why would Tim Murphy stay at my
home?”

“Because
he was helping you with your drug awareness program and he probably needed a
place to stay one night. You live alone, so you invited him to use your spare
room.”

“And what
evidence do you have of this, little lady?”

“You
thought Father Tim was a man of the utmost moral standing, but he was never an
angel, not even close. He couldn’t resist that lock on the door. It was like a
bottle to an alcoholic. He picked your lock. I saw the scratches on it, just as
I had seen his scratches many times before. Just for a joke, when he picked
locks, he always left a little curved scratch on the bottom, just like an
artist signing his work. I saw that curved scratch on your padlock. You were asleep
and Father Tim must have tiptoed in there and seen your frilly museum and the
beautiful mannequin, your Natalie.”

McNab’s
eyes grew cold as ice.

“You saw
me enter the room, too, didn’t you? You have cameras in your house and when I
went in there tonight, you recorded it. You saw it after everyone left. That’s
why you came.” She stared into his eyes with fiery resolve. “You came because I
know your little secret and you plan on shutting me up forever.”

He bit his
lip.

“Father
Tim liked the mannequin and must have seen the web page on the computer. He
made a note using your blue paper and I’m sure he planned on ordering a Natalie
for himself. It would have been just like him. I saw the note the morning I
found his body: M-Bexter-Nat. At first I thought Bexter might have something to
do with Henrietta’s husband, Baxter Gable. But I now know the truth. The note
should have been M for Mannequin, Becter and not Bexter, and Nat for Natalie.
But the question remains, why did you want revenge? What did he do that was so
wrong?”

“You tell
me,” he challenged.

“Father
Tim touched her,” Tasheka said.

McNab said
nothing.

“He
touched her!” Tasheka shouted.

“Murphy
did touch her,” McNab suddenly said, affirming her theory with a tortured look.
She could see the rage building. “That son of a bitch touched her!”

“I thought
so.”

McNab
stared unblinkingly, a cold force emanating off his body.

“He
touched your Natalie,” Tasheka said, “with his right hand.”

McNab
nodded with demon eyes.

“Tell me
what happened, Bill. I know it must be eating at you. Let it out this one time.
You’re planning on killing me anyway.”

“I am
going to kill you,” he admitted with a businesslike lack of emotion.

“You might
as well tell me the whole story then.”

He thought
about it for several seconds.

“Tell me,
Bill. Confess. It’s good for the soul.”

“When I
was a teenager,” McNab said, his lip quivering, “my first girlfriend cheated on
me with my brother. I had two more girlfriends and they cheated, too. Whores!
All women are whores. Only my mother was different, but even she betrayed me.”