Merry, Merry Ghost (29 page)

Frowning, arms folded, he stared at the top of the table, which was covered by taped-down black plastic garbage bags. Displayed were Kim’s open purse, the leather streaked and misshapen from immersion, and the purse’s contents: twenty-two pistol, comb, lipstick, compact, Tide washout stick, nail file, cell phone, disintegrating photo folder with limp prints separated and spread out, billfold open and emptied.

Where was the will? Even though I held out little hope that the ink writing would be legible, a sodden square envelope was not among the items on the table.

Chief Cobb swung around as his door opened. His demeanor was grim and intent.

Fatigue didn’t weigh as heavily on Detective Sergeant Price. He looked vigorous, his step buoyant. He was as attractive as always, white-blond hair, grayish-blue eyes, interesting and compelling face with a bold nose and chin. A folder tucked under one arm, he strode to the table with his usual energy, a man always in a hurry. “We went through Weaver’s apartment like locusts. Not a trace, Sam.”

The chief grimaced. He gestured wearily at the table. “The will was supposed to be in her purse.”

Price slapped his folder on the table and looked quizzical. “Your source good?”

Chief Cobb glanced at the still-smudged blackboard. “Horse’s mouth. I would have bet the house on it.”

I wasn’t sure the attribution appealed to me, but I appreciated his confidence.

Price turned his large hands palms up. “You lost.”

“The same source tipped me to the brick plant.” Again he gave a furtive glance at the blackboard.

Price’s sandy eyebrows rose. “The source had that one right. In fact”—he pointed at a green folder—“I got confirmation from the lab. A rifle slug was in the front right tire. Too smashed to be identified. We know what happened because we were there, but if we hadn’t known to look for a slug, nobody ever would have.

Besides, the car would probably never have been found and she would have been tagged a missing person.”

He rested one hip against the table, glanced over the exhibits. “Now we got the car, we got a body, we got proof of murder. As for the will, maybe it fell out of the purse and was thrown clear when the car went over.”

Cobb was brusque. “Purse was zipped when they pulled the car out.”

Price’s blue eyes were sardonic. “Maybe the horse’s mouth on the will was like most race tips: wishful thinking. Maybe there never was a new will.”

Chief Cobb settled his shoulders like an obdurate bulldog refusing to budge from the food bowl. “There’s a will. I talked to the man who signed it as a witness Saturday night. Susan Flynn brought the will to his house and signed it. She had him read it, and the terms correspond to what she’d told Wade Farrell to draw up.

Farrell’s really upset by the idea that Kim Weaver intercepted the will. He said we can look anyplace we want to in his office, including Kim Weaver’s desk. I don’t expect to find anything. Obviously, if she kept quiet about the will, she didn’t make a nice little notation recording its arrival.

“Anyway, there is—or was—a will. That’s why Kim Weaver died. We may never find the will. A lot of things are possible. Maybe Weaver took the will out of her purse, laid it on the car seat. When they brought the car up, it was full of water. One of the windows broke on impact. The will could have washed right out of the car and turned into mush. Maybe she stopped on her way to the brick plant and left it somewhere and very likely we’ll never find it. Right now, the will doesn’t matter. We have the testimony of the witness that it existed. That’s all we need to provide a motive for her murder. The existence of the previous will gives us the identities of the people who were better off, big bucks better off, if the new will wasn’t produced.”

The chief wriggled his shoulders as if trying to ease strained muscles. “Here’s how I see it. One of Susan Flynn’s original heirs or Peg Flynn’s boyfriend overdosed her on digitalis Saturday night to make sure she wouldn’t sign a new will Monday morning, leaving everything to her grandson. Oddly enough”—there was a strange expression on his face—“and maybe the work of providence, if your mind runs to that kind of stuff, Susan Flynn wrote the new will Saturday night, took her sister-in-law’s car, and went out to get the will signed. I talked to the witness first thing this morning. I’m going to keep him under wraps. It isn’t healthy to be connected to that will.”

Price walked to a side table with a coffeepot, poured a mug. He held up the pot. “You want some?”

“Yeah.” Cobb blinked as if trying to stay alert.

Price poured a second steaming mug, carried them across the room, handed one to the chief. “Kind of funny that Susan Flynn writes out a will when she knows her lawyer will have one ready with all the fancy language Monday morning.”

Chief Cobb avoided Price’s gaze. “Maybe she had a premonition. Women are funny that way. All we know for sure is that she went out that night.”

“With a redheaded friend.” Price’s voice was carefully expressionless. He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his gray wool slacks. “It would be helpful if we could find the friend.”

Cobb paced back and forth. He didn’t look toward Price when he muttered, “The witness was kind of confused about the friend’s name, thought it was something like Floy.”

Price tensed. “Floy? Could it have been Loy?” There was a note of excitement in Price’s voice. “Last time”—he didn’t elaborate on when that had occurred—“her nameplate read
M. Loy
.”

Cobb was equally expressionless. “No point in guessing about things we don’t know. Let’s leave it that Mrs.

Flynn’s friend was a redhead.” Cobb glanced at the blackboard. “I’ve got a feeling she may get in touch.

Until then, we’ve got other fish to fry. Susan Flynn’s funeral is at ten. We’ll allow time for the service and the reception. They’ll all be at the house. We’ll call around four o’clock, ask everybody who was at Pritchard House Saturday night to come to the station, make it clear they’ll be picked up for questioning if anybody declines. If somebody wants to bring a lawyer with them, that’s fine. Plus we’ll have a nice invitation for Peg Flynn’s boyfriend. Dave Lewis was trying to borrow from Susan to finance a vet clinic and she was having second thoughts. Lewis was there Saturday night and knew Susan intended to change her will. Maybe he decided it would be easier to marry an heiress than ask for a loan. We need to find out if he knew Kim Weaver.”

Cobb moved heavily to the blackboard, weariness evident in his slumped shoulders and slow steps. He picked up a piece of chalk, gave it a bemused glance, then printed in large block letters:
Jacqueline Flynn

Peg Flynn (Dave Lewis)

Tucker Satterlee

Gina Satterlee

Harrison Hammond

Charlotte Hammond—not a direct heir, profits through husband
Cobb’s face corrugated in thought. Then, with deliberation, the chalk harsh against the board, he added Kim Weaver’s name to the center right of Susan’s previous heirs. “There’s a line from Weaver to one of them.

Last night she followed it right over the edge of the clay pit. It’s up to us to make the connection.” He slapped the chalk into the tray. “Get Johnny Cain up here.”

As soon as the door closed behind Detective Sergeant Price, I picked up a piece of chalk, stepped to one side of the chief’s list of heirs. I hoped Wiggins was fully engaged in Tumbulgum.

Chief Cobb still stood within a foot of the blackboard. The movement of the chalk caught his eye. He blinked, hunched his shoulders, watched.

I couldn’t convey all that I knew in the little time that I expected to have. Ever since my arrival at the chief’s office, there had been a constant stream of officers in and out. Detective Sergeant Price would likely return with Officer Cain in a very few minutes. I cut to the chase.

11:30 P.M. last night:

Harrison Hammond not at home or office. Charlotte home
.

Jake Flynn downstairs, dressed, appeared upset
.

Peg Flynn and Gina Satterlee in bedrooms, appeared stressed
.

Car hoods not warm but bikes available in Pritchard garage
.

Couldn’t find Dave Lewis
.

Tucker Satterlee out on a horse at 11 P.M. Claims heifer in labor
.

Look on hillside for shell, hoof marks, bike tread
.

The door hinge squeaked. Swiftly, I wiped the eraser over what I had written. The eraser and chalk were in the tray by the time Price and Johnny Cain entered the room.

Chief Cobb stared at the smudged blackboard, frozen in shock.

Price stopped so quickly Johnny bumped into him. “Hey, Sam, you okay?”

Cobb took a step toward the door, then wavered unsteadily.

Instinctively, I grabbed his arm to provide support, though I certainly wasn’t strong enough to keep him from toppling.

He jerked his arm free and reeled against the blackboard.

Price thudded across the room, reaching for the chief’s elbow. “Hey, Sam, maybe you need to take a rest.

Guess you didn’t get much sleep last night. Why don’t you take a seat?”

Cobb pushed away from the board, shook off Price’s grip. “I’m okay.” He slid a quick look toward the blackboard, shook his head. “No big deal. I’m short on sleep and maybe I need some breakfast.”

Price jerked his head at Johnny. “Order a couple of Lulu’s Early Bird Specials.” His grin was quick. “For me and the chief. We’ve got a job for you.”

Johnny stepped a few feet away, pulled out a cell phone, punched a number. “Police chief’s office. Send two Lulu’s Early Birds.” The call ended, he looked from Price to the chief.

Cobb’s color was better. “Thanks, Johnny. I’ll sketch out what I want you to do in a minute.” He turned toward Price. “Got a tip while you were gone. Tucker Satterlee was out on a horse—”

Price interrupted. “How’d you know? Haskins just called in. About eight-thirty this morning, he saw a horseman on a hill overlooking the pit, challenged him. Satterlee told Haskins he heard on the eight o’clock news about a car going into the pit and he rode over to take a look since the property belonged to the Flynn estate. Satterlee thought somebody from the family should check out what was happening.”

A brooding expression on his heavy face, Chief Cobb folded his arms. “So we’re too late.”

Price looked puzzled. “Haskins told him the area was closed until further notice. Satterlee didn’t get near the pit, though that wouldn’t have done any harm.”

“Satterlee was also out on a horse last night.” Cobb’s voice was grim. “Around eleven o’clock. Maybe he was out to a pasture to see about birthing a calf. Maybe he was on that hill overlooking the pit. Now we’ll never be able to prove anything. All we know for sure is that if hoof marks were left last night, they can never be distinguished from the ones his horse left this morning.” He stalked to his desk, picked up the phone. “Benson, get with Haskins out at the brick plant. Rope off the area where he saw a horseman this morning. Search the area for a rifle shell. Or for footprints or bike-tread prints. Search like you’re hunting for a silver grain of sand.” He clicked off the phone, slammed into the swivel chair behind his desk, slammed a fist on the desktop. “I don’t like to be screwed over. But Satterlee’s too clever by half. He drew a fat red arrow pointing to the place the shooter stood.”

Price dropped into a chair in front of Cobb’s desk, waved Johnny to the next seat. “Why would Satterlee take that chance? Maybe he really was out with a calf last night. Maybe he heard the news, wanted to flex a little muscle as a newly rich man.”

“And St. Nick’s going to bring me a winning lottery ticket.” Cobb’s tone was sour. “I’ll lay odds that shell casing is there. If anything’s found, you take me out for a steak dinner.”

Price’s smile was easy. “If they don’t find it—and they might miss a single casing—nothing’s proved.

Anyway, a casing is meaningless without a rifle. Say that Satterlee or one of the others was out last night with a rifle. How many places could they have disposed of a rifle after they left the brick plant?”

“I’m not counting on linking a casing to him or to anybody. What I want is proof that he took his horse this morning to the place where the shot was fired. When I’ve got that, I’ll know he’s either the killer or he knows something we need to know.” Cobb’s eyes glinted. “One way or another, I’m going to find out which of them killed Kim Weaver.” Cobb jerked his head at Johnny. “That’s where you come in.”

“Yes, sir.” Johnny’s handsome face also showed little effect of last night’s late hours. His thick black hair, combed hard to corral the natural curl, emphasized the sea blue of his eyes. His uniform was immaculate. He looked eager, excited, and proud to be chosen by the chief for special duty.

The chief’s expression was thoughtful, his face somber. “We have reason to believe Kim Weaver’s murder is connected to the murder of Susan Flynn. We have a tip that Susan Flynn signed a new will and Kim Weaver intercepted it in the mail yesterday morning.”

“A new will?” Johnny’s face furrowed.

“A will that leaves everything to Susan Flynn’s grandson. That will has disappeared.” Cobb leaned forward and stared at Johnny with gimlet eyes. “Kim Weaver called each of Susan Flynn’s heirs to tell them about the meeting at Farrell’s office at two o’clock. I’m guessing she told one of them about the new will and together they agreed that she’d keep it quiet. For a price. Or maybe she called Peg Flynn’s boyfriend Dave Lewis.

Whoever she called, we know she had an appointment with someone at the old brick plant at eleven o’clock and she was to bring the will. You can help us find out which of Susan Flynn’s heirs”—he ticked them off one by one—“Jacqueline Flynn, Peg Flynn, Tucker Satterlee, Gina Satterlee, and Harrison Hammond, knew Kim Weaver well enough to conspire to prevent that will from reaching Susan Flynn’s lawyer. Or maybe the contact was with Dave Lewis. Peg Flynn should know whether Lewis knew Weaver.”

Johnny stiffened. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to Peg Flynn. Find out from her how well all of them knew Kim Weaver.”