The Crafty Teddy (12 page)

“I’ll put lavender oil on Kitch when I get home,” said Ash, giving the approaching storm a worried look. It sounds a little weird, but a few drops of lavender oil applied to his head and ears keeps our dog fairly calm during thunderstorms.

I handed Ash the truck keys. “And please unplug the computer, so we don’t end up with fried circuits. We’ll call you once we’re finished at Merrit’s place.”

“I love you and be careful.”

I got into Tina’s police car and we drove back toward Remmelkemp Mill and turned west on Coggins Spring Road.

Keeping her eyes on the highway, Tina said, “Since this is our first time working an official investigation together, how do you want to approach this interview?”

“I’m going to keep my mouth shut—don’t laugh—while you ask the questions.”

“But you’ve got a lot more experience at this than I do.”

“And the best way for you to develop your skills as a tactical interviewer is to do it.”

“What if I miss something important?” Tina sounded anxious.

“Relax. I’ll say something.”

The radio speaker crackled. “Mike Control to Mike One.”

Tina grabbed the microphone. “Go ahead.”

“Mike One, we’re holding a call to the trash transfer station. The supervisor there says that he may have recovered some stolen property.”

Tina keyed the microphone. “It will have to wait for now. Tell him to put it in his office and we’ll send someone by tomorrow to get it.”

“Ten-four.”

Replacing the microphone, Tina said, “One other thing: Do you think I should mention that Merrit was having an affair?”

I pondered that for a moment. “My inclination is to hold off for now. We don’t know for a fact that the relationship played any role in Merrit’s murder and his wife is going to be upset enough already.”

“Okay. Brad, do you think we’re going to solve this murder? I don’t mean to sound selfish, but I haven’t been in office for very long…”

“And an awful lot of folks are going to be paying very close attention to how well you handle this.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry. By next week we’ll have a suspect in custody and a rock solid case.” I only wished that I felt as confident as I sounded.

The Merrits lived northwest of town near the base of Massanutten Mountain. It took about fifteen minutes to get there and the sky overhead was beginning to grow dark and cloudy as we made the turn onto Meacham Lane. The house was a good-sized, single-story brick rancher with black shutters and stood at the base of a low tree-covered hill. We pulled into the driveway and Tina parked behind a red Dodge Durango.

Once upon a time, the house might have been nice, but it was now in the kind of sorry shape that’s only achieved by years of neglect. The flower beds were overflowing with weeds, there was a portable basketball backboard and hoop lying on its side in the tall grass and pieces of a radio-controlled toy dune buggy were scattered all over the driveway. There was also a golf club lying nearby and it didn’t take enormous deductive skills to figure out what had happened to the toy. One of the windows was spray-painted black and the glass was visibly vibrating from a Goth the-world-sucks-and-I-hate-everything three-chord anthem to the horrors of life in the most affluent country in the history of the world.

We got out of the car and Tina shook her head in annoyance. “My kids aren’t saints, but my front yard has never looked like this.”

I poked at the dune buggy’s broken frame with my cane. “Yeah, but you’re part of a vanishing species: a responsible parent.”

“And that music.”

“Nice, huh? Now you know what hell sounds like.”

As we headed for the front door, I saw a jagged shaft of blue white lightning stab the ground off to the south and about seven seconds later there was a low grumble of thunder. Tina knocked hard on the dented steel door with her fist, but there was no answer, which didn’t come as any surprise considering how loud the music was. Tina tried again, this time a little harder. There was still no response.

“Can I borrow your nightstick for a second?” I asked.

“Why?”

“I’d like to show you the old-fashioned way to let folks know that you’ve come about a loud music call, but I don’t want to damage my cane.” She handed me her black aluminum baton and I began pounding it on the door at about shin level. It sounded like rifle fire and in between the blows, I said, “The secret…is to hit the door…where nobody…is going to…notice the fresh dents…right away.”

The door flew open and I quickly handed the nightstick back to Tina. A tall, dumpy middle-aged woman, dressed in a faded and sleeveless housedress, stood with hands on wide hips, glaring at us. I assumed she was Marie Merrit. She had to shout to be heard over both the music and Gilbert Gottfried’s nails-on-chalkboard voice blaring from the big-screen HD television in the living room. “What the hell is going on out here?”

“It’s the sheriff, Mrs. Merrit. We need to talk to you,” Tina half-yelled, as she put her nightstick back into its ring.

“What about?”

“It’s important, so it would probably be best if we go inside.”

“Who’s he?” Marie reached up with her left hand to massage her right shoulder and then seemed to catch herself and dropped her hand to her side.

“Brad Lyon. He’s a consultant for my department.”

“You can come in for a second.”

We followed her into the house and the moment we crossed the threshold, I was sorry that Tina had insisted on going inside. I hadn’t been in a home this filthy since I was a cop. I think the shag carpet in the living room may have once been beige, but now it resembled an oversized Jackson Pollock painting, only this masterpiece was composed of a thousand-or-so food stains and felt as sticky and crunchy underfoot as a movie theater floor. The two armchairs and most of the sofa were piled high with stacks of old newspapers, junk mail, dirty clothing, and a jumbo pack of toilet paper from Costco. Another nice touch was the stylish centerpiece on the coffee table. It was a greasy Domino’s Pizza box topped with a bowl containing the dregs of breakfast cereal and milk well on the way to becoming cottage cheese. Making this a full sensory experience, the air stank of rancid cooking oil, cat urine, and burned popcorn, which is a scent combination that you can bet Glade is never going to offer as a room freshener.

Marie walked over to the couch and, using her body to block our view, casually picked something up and tossed it to the floor and out of sight. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it looked like an electric heating pad and I was a little puzzled over the apparent subterfuge.

“Sorry about the mess, but Frank doesn’t do a thing to help around the house. You can move that stuff if you want to.” Marie motioned vaguely at the junk-filled armchairs as she sat down on the sofa.

“That’s okay, I’d rather stand,” I said, not adding:
Because God only knows what I’ll get on my pants.

“Any chance we can get the music turned down?” Tina looked in the direction of the bedroom.

“You can try, but Nathaniel keeps his room locked and doesn’t answer the door.”

A new song had started and it sounded like a punk rock version of an exorcism, complete with howls, screams, and the foulest language.

I asked, “So, how old is Nathaniel?”

“Ten.”

“
Ten?
And you’re letting him listen to that trash?”

Marie sniffed. “I don’t believe in censoring his experiences.”

“Then could we at least please put the TV on mute?” Tina asked. By now I could see she’d been watching that masterpiece of modern cinema,
Look Who’s Talking Too.
Gottfried was now shouting at a bunch of toddlers while the Elvis Presley song, “All Shook Up” played in the background.

“Sure.” Marie pointed the remote at the TV and pressed the mute button. Then she picked up a package of chocolate-dipped Oreos from the end table and fished out a cookie. “So, what do you want?”

Taking a deep breath, Tina said, “We’re here about your husband. There’s no easy way to say this, but he was found murdered earlier today at the museum.”

Marie’s eyes widened with shock and she dropped the cookie into her lap. “What?”

“He’s dead, Mrs. Merrit. We’re very sorry for your loss.”

“You’re sure?” Marie looked from Tina’s face to mine, searching for some sign of hope.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh dear God! How did it happen?” she sobbed.

“We’re still investigating that.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet, but we’re hoping you can help us.”

“How would I know who killed him?”

One of the most crucial tasks of a police interviewer is to listen carefully to how a question is answered and Marie’s last comment struck me as mighty peculiar. In essence, Marie had replied to Tina’s unspecified request for assistance by denying knowing the identity of her husband’s killer. I hoped that Tina had noticed the unusual response, but her next question told me she’d missed its significance.

Tina said, “There are other ways you can help us. For instance, did Mr. Merrit have any enemies?”

“He never said anything about any problems with anybody,” said Marie, and I noted the second straight passively evasive response.

“We also think there’s a possibility that his death might be related to some counterfeit antique items at the museum. Did he ever mention them?”

“No.”

“What time did he leave for work this morning?”

Suddenly the television picture vanished and was replaced by a text message saying that the satellite dish wasn’t receiving a signal. That meant there was heavy rain falling to the south. Then came a strong gust of wind and the branches of a tall shrub thumped against one of the living room windows. Lightning flared, immediately followed by an ear-splitting blast of thunder. We all jumped.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” said Marie and I noticed she looked far more frightened than distraught and I had a nagging sense that it wasn’t because of the thunderstorm.

“What time did Mr. Merrit leave for work?”

“I assume at about eight. That’s the time he normally went to the museum.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“I was asleep. I suffer from severe chronic fatigue syndrome.” Marie sounded both whiny and cantankerous.

Glancing at the filth, I thought,
Lady, you aren’t sick, just lazy.

Tina wrote the information down. “Did you talk to him on the phone at any point in the morning?”

“Frank was far too busy to call me.”

That was the third devious answer in under a minute. Marie was technically telling the truth, because Merrit
hadn’t
called her, but someone in this house had telephoned the museum shortly after ten
A.M.
However, with as busy as we’d been at the murder scene, I’d forgotten to tell Tina that. Some pieces of the puzzle seemed to be coming together and it was time to jump into the interview.

Clearing my throat, I said, “Ma’am, this is a terrible time for you and that can have a way of scrambling your brain. Are you sure you didn’t talk to Frank?”

“Of course, I’m sure.” Marie grabbed a wadded-up ball of paper towel and unfolded it to dab at her eyes.

“But somebody called the museum from here earlier today. Could it have been your son?”

Although I knew Tina was surprised, she gave no sign of it. Outside, the rain was beginning to crash in waves against the house. There was another lightning flash and a blast of thunder.

Marie buried her face in the soiled paper towel. “Oh God! I forgot. I was calling a friend and accidentally pressed the speed-dial number for Frank’s work.”

“Did he answer?”

“No, I hung up before he could. He didn’t like to be disturbed at work.” Marie’s shoulders began to quiver. “And…and…I missed the chance to tell him one last time that I loved him.”

Marie began to wail and I shot a look at Tina that said,
This chick is yanking our chains.
Tina nodded for me to continue, but I had to wait until Marie temporarily stopped crying and blew her nose.

I said, “I know this is hard, but we only have a few more questions. Have you been home all day?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Because one of our most important jobs is eliminating innocent people from consideration. Otherwise, some scummy defense attorney can claim that because you can’t account for your whereabouts, you might be the killer.”

“I didn’t kill my husband.” Marie was beginning to grow irate.

“No one said you did. We just want to know if you went anyplace today.” Tina jumped back in.

“Yes. I went to some yard sales in Elkton.”

“Were you alone, or did you go with a friend?”

“Not knowing I was going to need an alibi witness, I went by myself.”

“Gee, I’m sorry that you think you need an alibi.” I said, giving Marie a bland smile. “Just a couple more quick questions: Did you drive into Remmelkemp Mill or go by the museum?”

“No.”

“When did you leave home?”

“Just after ten, and I got back around noon.”

I wasn’t quite certain what to make of her answer. If she’d murdered her husband, she’d just created major problems for herself by admitting she was away from home within the time frame when Merrit was killed. Although I was convinced she wasn’t telling the complete truth, her motive for doing so or what she hoped to conceal was a mystery.

Outside, the rain seemed to be building to a crescendo. I let another roll of thunder pass before saying, “There’s paperwork at the museum that says Massanutten County issued your husband a personal computer to do museum work from home. We’re going to need that as evidence.”

Marie sniffled and hid her eyes behind the paper towel. “The only computer in this house belongs to us.”

“Did Frank have an office here at home?” Tina asked.

“Yes, in the garage.”

“Could we go out there and maybe look for the computer? It might help us to identify your husband’s killer.”

“No.”

“Would you mind telling us why not?” I kept my tone gentle and nonjudgmental.

“There’s no computer out there and I don’t want you poking around my house. In fact, I’m getting tired of being grilled and I want you to leave.”