The Easter Egg Murder (2 page)

2

“Uncle Daniel, you should see this.”

Jonathan Templeton handed the old man a section
of the
Albuquerque Morning Sun
.

Daniel Snow was ninety-two
and it showed. His skin was almost translucent. His gnarled hands shook as he took the newspaper. He brought it close to his face and squinted at the caption. “Why should I look at the Arts Section?” He tossed the paper on his desk. “Give me the front page.”

“I think you’ll be more interested in this.” Jonathan retrieved the paper and turned to the Book Section on the back page. “
Let me read it to you.”

“This better be good. I’m not in the mood for that artsy fartsy crap.”

Jonathan smiled at his uncle’s grumpiness and read aloud.

Former U.S. Senator Philip Lawrence, who recently signed a six-figure contract with Random House for the story of his 24-year-career in the United States Senate, announced he is also working on another book about the murder of Kathleen “Chipper” Finn, a cocktail waitress who died fifty years ago today. Her body was discovered on Easter Sunday morning, 1950, in the desert outside the gambling town of Los Huevos, thirty-five miles southwest of Albuquerque. The newspapers of the day quickly dubbed it ‘The Easter Egg Murder.’ They had a field day with the sloppy investigation by the local sheriff. It prompted a change of venue for the murder trial of Manny Salinas, a prominent figure in the boxing world at the time. He was acquitted, and no one else was ever charged with the crime.

Jonathan paused and looked at the old man. Daniel gestured impatiently at him to continue.

District Attorney Daniel Snow, who personally prosecuted the case, left the District Attorney’s office in 1952 to run for Attorney General. Snow’s campaign was successful due to his stance against open gambling in the state. He promised to close down illegal casinos in Los Huevos and to fight government corruption. He maintained the young woman’s death was the result of the lawless activities in that small town. In 1957, he was appointed to fill the empty seat created by the death of U.S. Congressman Joseph D. Calloway. He held that seat until 1964 when he abruptly resigned and became a virtual recluse at the family estate.

When asked about his new book, Senator Lawrence, a longtime associate of Congressman Snow, would not comment on the possibility of new evidence in the case
, nor would he speculate on who he thought was involved in the young woman’s death.

A full minute passed before Daniel spoke. “Find out who he’s working with on this. He must have someone editing the manuscript. And see if you can get his agent’s name.”

Jonathan took a deep breath
. “Uncle Daniel, what about Eric?”

“Jonathan, do you trust me?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Then go along and do as I ask. Everything will be fine.”

Jonathan nodded and left.

Daniel Snow looked down at the newspaper on his desk, not really seeing it. He tried not to think about his son, Eric, and the threat now rearing its ugly head again after all these years. Most of all, he tried not to think about a girl named Chipper.

3

Ginger looked at Harrie. “Are you okay? You look awful!”

“I just remembered something about my dream.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Not yet. I need time to think some things through.”

“Such as?”

Harrie looked down at her hands, framing her words with care. “I may need to tell Philip about my dream, and I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You know how people sometimes get when I talk about the dreams.”

“I guess it
depends a lot on what has you stirred up. Why do you think it’s necessary to tell Philip about your latest nightmare?”

“Because I think someone is sending me a message through this dream.”

Ginger watched Harrie. “And why would you think that?”

Harrie brushed aside the question and asked one of her own. “Do you remember when Mark died?”

“Of course I do. Shortly before your third wedding anniversary.”

Harrie nodded. “January 15, 1995.”

She could still feel the chill from the cold, damp air. It had been snowing that evening and the quiet that comes with soft falling snow made the night seem so peaceful. That was shattered when two detectives rang her doorbell shortly before midnight. She knew instantly what it was.

Mark McKinsey was a detective with the Albuquerque Police Department for over a decade when Ginger and Steve introduced him to Harrie in 1991. He made it clear from the beginning he was interested, but her brief, disastrous marriage to Nick
Constantine still haunted her.

Mark was a big, sturdy man with a dependable, safe feeling about him. The
ir dating slipped into a comfortable routine. They had dinner together on his nights off and quiet weekends visiting the cafes and shops of Old Town, especially Treasure House Books and Gifts with its trove of books and gifts devoted to things Southwestern.

During a romantic dinner
On Valentine’s Day, 1992, he asked her to marry him. After the meal, they ordered coffee, and Harrie chided him about his use of cream. She always took hers black.

The wedding was in May and she anticipated a quiet, uneventful life with this wonderful
man who loved her without question.

Then three years later on that terrible night in January, Mark and his partner
went to question a possible witness in a murder investigation. After they knocked on his door and announced they were police officers, he opened fire, mortally wounding Mark and severely wounding his partner. By the time Harrie got to the hospital, Mark was in a coma. He died minutes after she arrived. She hadn’t been in an emergency room since that night and prayed it would stay that way.

Harrie forced her mind back to the present. “Do you remember how depressed I was?”

“I’ll never forget. You were like a zombie.”

“Did I ever tell you what happened that helped me start to heal?”

Ginger shook her head. “Not really. You said something about a dream, but you never explained. I always wondered, but I didn’t want to ask.”

“It was the first time I had one of my really vivid dreams, and I wasn’t ready to share it with anybody. Remember when we were kids, I told you about my grandmother and how she used to visit people in her dreams?”

Ginger nodded. “I remember thinking you had the neatest grandmother in the whole world!”

“I always thought so.” Harrie smiled as she pictured her grandmother. “Anyway
, on Valentine’s Day the year after Mark died, I felt depressed, as usual, and I went to bed early. That night, my grandmother came to me in my dream and said she had a surprise for me. She told me to go to my kitchen. When I did, Mark was sitting there at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, just like he always did. I was stunned, but happier than I had been in ages. I sat down opposite him, and he said, ‘Why are you so sad?’ I can still remember the feeling of pure joy at seeing him there, and I said, ‘I’m not sad now that you’re here with me’. He smiled at me and said, ‘I’ve always been here with you. Just because you don’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not with you. I’ll always be around when you need me, but you’ve got to get on with your life. There are so many wonderful things ahead for you.’ He reached across the table and touched my hand, and I felt his warm skin against mine. The next morning, I woke up with the sun shining through the bedroom window. My hand was in the sunbeam, and I felt the same warmth as in the dream when Mark touched me. It was so real!”

Harrie looked off into space.

Ginger sat very still and waited for Harrie to go on.

“When I went to the kitchen, I was still thinking about the dream and how it comforted me. I poured myself a cup of black coffee, just like always. I sat down at the table, and my heart almost stopped beating.” Harrie’s eyes filled with tears.

Ginger whispered, “What happened?”

Harrie smiled and brushed away the tears. “I looked across the table, where Mark always sat, and there was his favorite coffee mug. In the bottom of the cup were the remains of cold, creamed coffee.”

4

Monday Afternoon, April 10, 2000

“Names, please?”

“I’m Ginger Vaughan, and this is Harriet McKinsey. We’re here to see Senator Philip Lawrence.”

Harrie and Ginger had worked all morning on the revisions for the senator’s manuscript
. After a quick lunch, they drove to Canyon Estates. The security guard checked his clipboard, nodded, and reached for the button to open the huge iron gates.

“This place is like a fortress, but it’s gorg
eous,” Harrie commented. The homes lining the main road displayed a profusion of colorful flowers, and the golf course looked almost too meticulous to actually play on.

The sun was out, and the clouds of yesterday were only a memory. Their cookout on Sunday had been wonderful. But today, Harrie was again apprehensive.
Last night had brought a repeat of the same bad dream.

Harrie brought her attention back to the upcoming meeting with Senator Lawrence. “
Does he know I’ll be with you?”

“I called him just before we left the office.” Ginger looked over at her. “
Still worried about that dream?”

“Yes. I think
the senator is in danger.”

“Why?”

She hedged. “It’s just a feeling.”

After the dream about Mark four years ago, Harrie experienced other unusual ones. Sometimes she would dream about something and find out later it had actually happened. Other times she felt she was supposed to deliver a message to someone. She believed these messages and intuitions were from Mark. She didn’t talk about it much. Most people seemed to discount dreams as nothing more than a person’s imagination set free by the sleep state.

Harrie said, “I’m reluctant to mention anything to him without knowing what his reaction might be. He might think I’m a nut case.”

Ginger
laughed and patted Harrie’s arm. “Let’s just see how it goes. You’ll know what to do.”

A
n older woman with short-cropped gray hair answered the chime. Her face lit up when she saw Ginger. Ramona Sanchez had been the senator’s housekeeper for many years. She ran the house with quiet efficiency and doted on her employer. He tended to be a loner and seldom left the comfort of his spacious home. Ramona shopped for groceries, prepared all his meals and kept the house in immaculate condition. She also fiercely guarded his privacy.

Ginger introduced her to Harrie and said, “Is he ready for us?”

“He’s in the library. Go on in, and I’ll bring some iced tea.”

The senator’s home was quiet and comfortable. Harrie believed houses had an energy all their own, relate
d to the people who lived there and the events that transpired within their walls. At Ginger’s soft knock on the library door, a deep, mellow voice responded, “Enter.”

W
alnut bookcases lined the room from the gleaming hardwood floors all the way to the ceiling. A library ladder with books stacked on the bottom step stood against one section of shelves. A black leather sofa and chair, positioned on an elaborate Persian rug, occupied the library at one end along with a sturdy conference table. A huge walnut desk dominated the other end, and Philip Lawrence sat behind it. He had white hair and fierce black eyebrows. A smile creased his craggy face when he looked at them.

“I am a lucky man. It’s not every day two lovely ladies come calling on me.” He chuckled. “In fact, it almost never happens.”

He wasn’t much taller than the five-foot-five Harrie, but his stocky build, barrel chest and muscular arms made him look younger than his seventy six years. He enveloped Ginger in a bear hug. “How’s my girl, and how are Steve and those boys of yours?”

“We’re all fine, Philip. And those ‘boys of mine’ are young men of fourteen now. They’re so busy these
days with school, soccer, girls and homework, we only see them at mealtimes!”

Philip chuckled, “Just you wait, my dear. It won’t be long before even mealtime won’t bring them home. Where does the time go?” He released Ginger and turned to Harrie.

“My goodness, Harrie, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, Senator, it has.”

“I hope you’ll relax enough to call me Philip before you leave today.”

He guided them to the sofa
and then seated himself in the matching chair. Ramona brought a tray with iced tea then closed the door as she left.

Philip looked at Harrie. “When Ginger called today, she said you
might have questions for me?”

Now that she was here, she didn’t know how to start. The senator was still as intimidating as she remembered him. She took a sip of tea before proceeding. “Well,” she took a breath and plunged ahead, “I know you were a newspaper reporter for a time, but I gather you weren’t in New Mexico when the crime happened. I’m curious. Why do you want to write about this old unsolved murder?”

When he didn’t say anything for a moment, Harrie wondered if the question was too personal. He looked at her with those dark, penetrating eyes.

“For one thing, it was a turning point for politics in the state. It’s entirely possible that without th
at unfortunate woman’s murder, I would not have become a United States senator.”

“Look,” she said, “I
feel a need to tell you something, but I’m afraid you’ll think I’m a nutcase. You see, for a few years now, I get this sort of . . . well, I have these unusual experiences . . .”

“
Harrie has weird, vivid dreams,” Ginger said. Harrie felt her face flush, and she looked down at her shoes to avoid his gaze.

“Oh, really?” A smile played across his face.

Harrie lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders.

“Yes, really.” She knew she sounded defensive and tried again. “
Sometimes I get messages for people. Maybe it’s a word of encouragement for someone going through a difficult time. It could be that a person lost something, and I know where to look. Then sometimes . . . well, sometimes I get warnings.”

Philip studied her. “So are you saying you have a message for me?”

Harrie relaxed a little. “Yes sir, I think I do.”

“Well, Lord knows I could use encouragement, or maybe I lost something. Tell me, my dear, which is it?”

She looked him in the eyes, searching for the right words. “I’ve had a recurring dream since we started work on this manuscript. I don’t understand all of it, but I believe the dream I’ve had for the last two nights contains a message for you.” She continued to look into his eyes, willing him to believe her. “You’re in danger. Someone doesn’t want this book published.” She swallowed hard. “I believe someone wants you dead.”