Murder for Bid (6 page)

“Well, his caddy swears that he had been carrying eleven. It seems that he had a driver custom made just a couple of weeks ago. I figure that he bludgeoned her death with a club, took her jewels to make it look like a robbery, and then disposed of the stuff somewhere close by. Does the autopsy show a wound pattern that could fit a golf club? Did your guys check out the clubs or look around for a possible place that he could have disposed of one? Did…”

He stood up, soda can still in hand. “Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?”

Oops. “No, of course not,” I backtracked. “It’s just that I thought I’d do a little investigating myself. I was there, remember? You told me how she was killed; it was awful. And to make matters worse, my description is all over the news, like I was the one that killed her!”

“Don’t worry about the press. They just need a storyline. You’re not an official suspect so no need to get involved. Just let me do my job and stay away from Schmidt.” He took one last drink and tossed his empty can down amongst the clutter on my coffee table and started to pace, which was a sure sign that he was becoming irritated.  

Well, I was becoming irritated, too. In fact, he was really ticking me off. How could he not see how obvious it was that Schmidt was involved? Why wasn’t he on the phone demanding a search warrant or something? “I can’t believe you. You never take me seriously. I’m practically handing you the murder weapon and you’re not even listening. Have you determined that the murder weapon was something else?” I asked, frustration stinging my fair skin.

“No, that hasn’t been established.”

“Are you going to at least check into it?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, sure, I’ll have someone check into it.”

His indifference infuriated me. “You’re not going to check into it!”

He threw up his hands. “I said I would. What do you want?”

“Just forget it!” I snatched up my keys and purse and headed for the door.

He blocked my way, one hand on the door. “I can’t let you go unless you promise me that you’re going to let this drop.”

I tried batting his hand away. “What are you going to do, arrest me?”

His black mood broke immediately. Grabbing my shoulders, he spun me around and moved in closer, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“House arrest, maybe.”

I knew he was just trying to distract me by getting me worked up into a hormonal frenzy so I couldn’t think clearly.
Which was really making me mad, since it was working. 

I gave him a little shove, but he persisted, pulling me even closer.

“Stop it,” I spat, putting my hands on his chest and wedging a little space between us. “Let’s get serious.”

“I am serious.”

“No, about the case, I mean.”

He sighed. “I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re going want to pursue this Schmidt thing.” His sexy tone was gone and he was back to business. “I’m asking you to leave it alone. It’s dangerous. I don’t want you hurt. Not to mention that it involves a lot of high profile people.”

“Are you afraid that I’ll tarnish their reputation? Or
your
reputation?”

He cringed. “Look, I’ve already had to spend a lot of time smoothing things over. The guy saw you going through his garbage, remember? He thinks you’re somehow involved with his wife’s murder. Face it; you’d be trying to find a defense attorney right now if it weren’t for me.”

He was right. What could I say? I had really landed myself in a mess this time. Still, it was no excuse for him to ignore my golf club theory. “Fine, I’ll leave it alone for now.” I slung my purse over my shoulder. “You’d better move out of my way because I’m leaving; I have a lot of work to do today. Lock the door on your way out,” I said, squeezing past him before he could push the issue any further.

He, of course, being the gentleman that he was, followed me out. After seeing me safely to my car, and making me promise several more times that I wouldn’t interfere with police business, he gave me a quick kiss and waved goodbye amicably. As if it was all that easy. Little did he know that he had as good as challenged me to prove that the golf club was indeed the murder weapon and that Schmidt was the
murderer. Now, I just needed to figure out
how
to prove it.

Chapter
Three

After driving aimlessly for a few blocks, I finally decided give the case a rest and hit a few garage sales. I stopped in at the gas station and picked up a couple of candy bars and a newspaper, which of course featured the headline
Vagrant Woman Suspect in Socialite’s Murder
. I glanced around, red faced, before extracting the classifieds and throwing away the rest of the paper.

I checked off the sales as I made my way through the addresses, but by late afternoon, I’d found only a couple of items. Plus, it had started to spit rain again and people were shutting down early. I was losing interest quickly. Besides, with everything going on, I couldn’t seem to keep my mind on business anyway.

Rounding the corner to Elm Street, which was to have housed a multi-family sale, I suddenly decided to veer off on a slight detour. Schmidt’s house was just two streets away; what would it hurt to drive by? More than likely, he was still staying somewhere else until a cleaning crew could take care of the crime scene. If it were me, I would never go back. I couldn’t imagine living with the reminder of my loved one’s cruel death. Although, Schmidt, being a cold-blooded murderer, probably didn’t share my perspective.

Surprisingly, the street was almost vacant. The only activity came from a construction crew a few houses down, where workers were preparing to pour the basement of a new build. The rotating cement truck blocked most of the road, so I was forced to park behind one of the contractor’s trucks, a red pickup sporting the Davis Construction logo.

I thought back to meeting Greg. It was more than just good looks with him. It was an aurora of power and success that made him so attractive. I wondered if he was serious about anyone or if he could ever be serious about me. I imagined what it would be like to run my hands through that wavy black hair of his and kiss his full lips. What was I thinking? I was already sort-of involved with a perfectly nice guy. One who
had
kept me from being a prime murder suspect and who, by the way, would not approve of me poking around Schmidt’s house. Then again, how would he ever find out? 

I picked my way along the orange fencing which created a barrier around the construction site; self-conscious of the stares I was receiving from a few of the workers. I breathed easier after passing without provoking any rude comments. Of course, maybe the idea of wolf-whistling at a gal with tumors on her back wasn’t their style.

As I neared Schmidt’s house, the only indication that a brutal murder had occurred the day before was a small piece of leftover crime scene tape caught on one of the front barberry bushes. For some reason, that solo piece of tape upset me. Amanda Schmidt had been robbed of her life prematurely. What had she missed out on? Children? Grandchildren? It seemed as if the world should stop when someone so young and vital loses her life. Instead, all that was left to mark this horrific loss was a scrap of yellow tape. 

Approaching the house, I watched closely for signs of someone being home, but saw none. Aware that the construction workers were watching, I casually scooped up a newspaper lying at the end of the walk, and moved toward the front door. Hopefully, they would assume that I was a friend coming over to take care of the place in the owner’s absence. Just to make it look good, I opened the mailbox and peaked inside. Although it was stuffed with envelopes, I pretended to have found it empty. Once out of sight of the workers, I placed the newspaper carefully on the front stoop and then peaked through the narrow window which ran alongside the door. Unable to see much, I ventured around the side of the house. The workers were shouting amongst themselves now and I could hear that they were packing it up for the day. The threat of heavy rain was going to delay the pouring of the cement.

Glad they were finally leaving, I felt much more at ease as I made my way around to the backyard. A tall privet hedge provided the privacy that I needed to snoop. More than ever, I was convinced that Schmidt had killed his wife and that he had used one of his golf clubs to do it. If I could just find that club, I could prove it.

My eye spied the perfect hiding spot. At the far end of the yard stood a tool shed. Even from my vantage point, I could see that the door was padlocked, a sure sign that the small building held something secretly sinister.

Several times, I circled its exterior like a hawk circling its prey. Brushing aside an out-of-control rose hedge, I braved the thorns to get a peek inside a small side window. I rubbed a circle in the dust-covered surface and strained to see inside.

“What are you doing?” a booming voice demanded.

I wheeled around to find myself face to face with Richard Schmidt.

“Who are…?” His expression changed from anger to disbelief as he realized that he’d seen me before. “It’s you, the homeless woman.”

“I’m not homeless,” I replied with dignity. I didn’t mention that I practically lived with my parents.

He starred at me with a confused expression. “You look homeless,” he said, eyeing my outfit.

That did it. This tumor sweater was really going to have to go.

“Who are you and what are you doing on my property?” he asked with a flushed face. I could even see the vein throbbing at his temple. He was about to blow.

I rushed to explain, “I’m Phillipena O’Brien. I’m dating … uh … I’m a friend of Detective Sean Panelli from the Naperville Police Force.”

“That doesn’t explain what you’re doing trespassing on my property.”

A siren wailed in the distance.

“I’m checking something out.”

“Do you work for the police?”

I hesitated, my mind working frantically on a fabrication worthy of the situation.

The siren was growing closer.

“Sounds like the police are coming,” I said.

“I called them.”

Panic struck. “You did?” I asked, looking around frantically for a place to run.

“Don’t even think about running,” he said, stepping closer to me. “You were here the day my wife was murdered. Did you do it? Did you kill her?”

“Me!” This guy was a piece of work. He should have been an actor instead of a councilman. “What are you talking about? I didn’t kill your wife.” I moved in closer, feeling more confident. “What’s more, I think you did it so that you could get her out of your life and be with your mistress.”

“My mistress?” His mouth went slack.

“Look, Schmidt, you might as well confess. The cops will be here any minute and you’re going to have a hard time explaining what’s inside your shed.”

“What’s inside my shed?”

“Why the padlock?
Hiding the murder weapon?” I asked.

An angry sneer tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re crazy, lady.”

“You killed her with one of your golf clubs,” I retorted.

The sirens were coming from just down the street.

He squinted. “One of my clubs?”

“You were carrying eleven at the club the day she was killed. There’s only ten in your bag now.”

Schmidt’s mouth opened, but he didn’t reply. He probably knew there was no use in denying it.

I continued, “Amanda found out about your affair and you killed her.”

“You’re nuts. You have no idea what you’re talking about. What affair?”

It infuriated me that Schmidt was trying to deny the obvious. “I saw the shirt! You threw it out because there were lipstick stains all over it. You were trying to hide it because you didn’t want your wife to know that you were cheating on her. She found out anyway, didn’t she? And when she confronted you about your affair, you became enraged. You grabbed the nearest thing you could find, the golf club, and beat her to
death. Then, you put her body into the hot tub to buy time.” I pushed an accusing finger against his chest. I was on this guy like white on rice. “You couldn’t have the coroner pinpointing the time of death, it would be too obvious. Then you took the jewelry to make it look like robbery. You think you’re so clever.” Accusations were spewing from my lips. I felt just like Matlock.

Schmidt stood frozen in silence, his eyes glistening with … what?
Fear? Hate?

“You have no idea what you’re talking about…” We both turned at the sound of car doors slamming, flowed heavy footsteps accompanied by the
glips of police radios. Through the shrubbery came a familiar face.