The Probability of Murder (24 page)

If his voice didn’t sound so strained, I’d have believed him fully.

I returned to the reason Virgil was in my kitchen.

“Back to this ring of thieves Charlotte was involved with. Didn’t the fact that they operated in more than one state put the case in federal jurisdiction?” I asked.

“Technically, yes, but”—Virgil put on a goon expression and lowered his already bass voice—“we know people.”

“You can do that?”

“The police and the FBI aren’t the adversaries television and movies make them out to be. We had a little latitude to work the case. As soon as Charlotte was ID’d and tracked to Henley after that speeding ticket, we notified them. Since it’s such a small community here on the campus, the feds agreed we might have a better chance to watch and learn. You can bet it’ll be easier the next time a turf thing
comes up, now that we’ve helped seal the Jane and John Doe cases. It was their last loose end.”

“Except for finding Charlotte’s killer.”

“Except for that,” Virgil acknowledged. “But she was murdered in Massachusetts, so that part is our case. If it turns out her murder was related to a crime out of state, we’ll see our agent friends again.”

I liked that I was asking questions and Virgil was answering. I pushed on, giving a nod toward the carton on the floor. “What’s in those envelopes that are sealed?”

“Clippings, mostly. Or, I should say, printouts from the web. Newspaper reports of old scams. There’s a whole pile of them on a guy who committed suicide when he lost everything thanks to our girl, who was Coleen Crawford at the time. You have to wonder if she enjoyed going over all the havoc she’d created.”

“Can I look at the printouts?”

“In a minute. I know from some kid in a Shop at Ease up near Boston that you’ve been on the tail of the ‘Garrett’ whose name was in Charlotte’s duffel.”

The Q&A power had shifted back to the cop. “It was just an off-the-wall shot at figuring out what happened,” I said. Not really detective work, I meant.

I had no desire to keep anything from Virgil. My mind was stretched to its limit with second-guessing a storm in New Hampshire. I told him the little I knew about the Garrett and Marty connection, based only on a telephone number. I omitted only my lunch plans for tomorrow.

“Something’s up with Melrose,” Virgil said. “We interviewed him, like everyone else who was at the crime scene gathering, including Ms. Rogers. I don’t have my notes here, but I think that’s her name.”

“Paula Rogers, dean of women,” I filled in.

“Well, Melrose tells us he hardly knew the deceased, but Ms. Rogers told us that he holds the lottery purse for the group on campus.” He gave me a sideways glance. “But you knew that.” I shrugged, noncommittal. “We checked,
and there’s nothing that indicates he’s skimming, but I felt he was holding something back.”

Good for Paula Rogers, I thought, and made a note to have my people call her people and set up a lunch date.

“Have you interviewed Garrett?” I asked.

Virgil shook his head. “So far we haven’t even laid eyes on him. You just gave me the first good lead with the Martin Melrose connection.”

I pointed to the carton, suggesting that reading its contents be my reward for my helpful tracking of Garrett.

Virgil smiled. “We hoped you’d be willing to look through it, see if anything jogs your memory to give us a clue.”

“Really? I get to work with you, even though I don’t want to claim her body?”

“That’s the kind of guy I am. Plus, the guys are through with lifting prints and so on. There’s nothing left of value to the investigation unless you can come up with something.”

I licked my lips. Forgetting for a moment that a murder was involved, I felt like I’d been given a box of new puzzles, some of them brainteasers, some logic puzzles, maybe an anagram, a wordplay, and a sudoku or two. I could hardly wait to tackle them.

“Thanks,” I said casually, lest my enthusiasm work against me in the eyes of the cop.

Virgil checked his watch. “Oops. I’d better run.”

I smiled because, first, I doubted Virgil had somewhere to be at nearly nine on a Sunday evening—other than out for more pizza—and second, because Virgil didn’t run.

“Don’t worry about the dishes,” I said, sweeping the empty pizza box and paper napkins into the trash. I dusted my hands. “All done.”

I thrust a baggie with the last of Ariana’s cookies at Virgil as I walked him to the door.

In the back of my mind, I’d been mulling things over. About Charlotte and her life at Henley. She’d been such an asset to the college community. She’d been a good friend
and a supportive colleague. I remembered hours of research she’d done for a grant proposal I had to submit, errands she’d done for Ariana when she was tied up at her shop.

What if Charlotte had truly reformed and had been counting on us to help her stay a law-abiding citizen? What if she had no control over people in her past who ultimately tracked her down and wouldn’t let her turn a corner in her life?

“Can I have another day?” I asked.

He gave me a quizzical look. “For what?”

“Before you give Charlotte’s body to the Commonwealth?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Thanks. And there’s one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“About Bruce. My perfectly safe boyfriend.” We both smiled. “Is there anything you can do, anyone you know? Maybe you know a cop or a sheriff in New Hampshire? Can you make a call?”

He pointed down the hall toward my office. “What did you think I was doing back there?” he asked.

He gave me a quick hug and left.

I was carrying the information-laden carton that Virgil had gifted me to a more comfortable spot in the den, when I heard the sound I’d been waiting for all evening.

Whirrrr. Whirrrr. Whirrrr.

I dropped the box, pulled my cell phone from my pocket, and read the screen name. Jenna Ramirez. My heart rate quickened and I held my breath. The phone slipped out of my hand before I could click it on. I went into a momentary panic that I’d lost her call.

“Jenna,” I said, picking up and finally orienting the phone correctly.

“Hi, Sophie. There’s no further news, so don’t worry. Or, yes, worry, whatever. I’ve been trying, but I can’t get through to anyone up there.”

We both broke down in a schoolgirl way that would have embarrassed me if I cared what anyone else thought.

I considered Virgil’s interpretation of the state of the climbers.

“Jenna, did the ranger, or whoever he was, actually use the word
missing
?”

“He said he knows where they are, from that one brief cell contact, but they can’t get to them. I’d call that missing, wouldn’t you?”

I hadn’t meant to upset Jenna further. “I would, yes, Jenna. It’s hard for me, since I’ve had absolutely no direct contact with anyone up there since the storm.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think of that. And I can’t believe I’ve been so insensitive, Sophie. When Bruce came to pick up Eduardo, he told me about your friend. It just went out of my head. That must be very upsetting for you. Was it horrible?”

I was in no shape to discuss Charlotte’s murder and all the complications of her life. I figured Jenna would hardly notice if I ignored her question and went back to our mutual problem.

“I understand why they called you and not me, Jenna. I’m not surprised that, since you and Eduardo are legally married, you’d get information before I would.”

“Maybe that’s it, but who knows what kinds of forms these guys sign as far as who to call? I know Eduardo told me once that he left my number for good news only, and MAstar’s number for bad news. I don’t think he was kidding, which is why I’m surprised the ranger told me as much as he did. I’ll bet he was new.”

I heard a long sigh, close to a wail from Eduardo’s wife.

“Jenna?”

“I’m okay,” she said, hardly sounding it. “Todd is finally asleep. I haven’t told him anything about being notified, and I don’t want to be upset in front of him. He’s a very smart little boy and you’d be amazed at how much he picks up on.”

I was sure her son was very smart, but the loudest word for me was
notified
. I didn’t like it. “There’s nothing to tell your son, right?”

“No, nothing.” I heard the “yet” in Jenna’s voice and didn’t like that any more than the “notify.”

When Ariana interrupted on call-waiting, I was glad for an excuse to sign off with Jenna. I realized Jenna needed to talk, but connecting with her was having the opposite effect from what I’d hoped.

“I’d better take this,” I said, rationalizing that we both needed third parties to distract us.

“Hang in there,” Jenna said, and I promised I would.

What else could I do?

“Any word?” Ariana asked. “I know you’ll call, but I hate waiting. I’m coming over, okay?”

“You don’t need to.”

I recounted Virgil’s spin on the situation in the mountains, trying to make it my own. I added Jenna’s report to me, and waited for Ariana’s assessment.

“It sounds like Virgil’s right.
Missing
would be where they had no idea where the guys were or when they went up.
Missing
would be the ranger wouldn’t even have known they went up,
missing
would be—”

“
Missing
would be they can’t find the mountain. I get it. Thanks, that’s what I wanted to hear. I’m fine.”

“See you in a few minutes,” Ariana said. “Bringing a change of clothes.”

I didn’t argue.

I spread the contents of the PROP box on the coffee table and sat on the couch in my den. I opened each envelope and scanned what it held, setting aside items for further reading. One envelope was stuffed with newspaper reports of scams. Some of the pieces had been downloaded from news sites; some had been physically clipped from old-fashioned newspapers. Scams of every category were represented, from the lottery to investment schemes to chain letters as a ruse to build someone’s database.

I told myself that Charlotte was not the perpetrator of these crimes, but had saved the clippings for the purpose of
making amends to the victims.
Aha
, I added,
perhaps the money in the duffel was to be distributed to said victims.

And the private plane was to take them all on a holiday to Bermuda. Welcome to Sophie Knowles’s dreamland.

I wondered why I was bothering to go through the clippings, but decided to keep at it until Ariana arrived.

I tore the tape from the next envelope. This one was dedicated to a single victim, the man Virgil had mentioned. Robert Foxwell, who owned a small but successful flooring company in Oregon, had committed suicide after having been conned out of his savings by Charlotte, operating under the name Coleen Crawford. He’d fallen for her investment scam and lost his money and his business.

As I read the details, I recognized the scheme: Foxwell gave her a few thousand dollars to begin with and received a large return very quickly. He then increased his investment, and again received a large return. I could see clearly where the game was headed, though, unfortunately, Foxwell had been oblivious to it. The money Charlotte gave him was simply cycled from other “investors.” Once hooked, Foxwell invested his whole net worth the next time, and, of course, saw neither his money nor Coleen Crawford ever again.

One of the clippings described how Coleen/Charlotte was caught and sent to prison for fraud. A small amount of money had been recovered and some of it returned through lawsuits by offended parties. But investigators had no way of knowing exactly how much booty Charlotte had accumulated and stashed in cash or in accounts all over the world. With the article was an informative sidebar explaining how scammers on the run often immediately turn a check into cash so they’ll leave no trail.

Good to know.

I wondered how much of what was in the duffel was from those scamming days. Unless she could also turn loaves into fishes, Charlotte could not have saved a million dollars on two years worth of salary as a college librarian.

Another clipping in the set announced Charlotte’s latest release from prison two-and-a-half years ago. Apparently Charlotte came to Henley soon after. For all I knew, all the money in the duffel belonged to Robert Foxwell, her last known victim. Why else would she have gathered and saved this complete dossier on that particular scheme and victim?

I realized I couldn’t make assumptions about Charlotte’s motivations for anything she’d done. I didn’t know her beginnings, but her whole adult life seemed to me a series of bad choices and wrong paths taken. I couldn’t fathom her reasons or those of anyone who made a profession out of taking advantage of people.

That she’d spent two years conducting herself as a model citizen was a conundrum, but not a reason to give her a pass on her prior life. And Virgil couldn’t say for sure that she hadn’t been working a con at Henley right before my eyes. I’d wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, even allowing that the money in the duffel might be clean, but the Foxwell story had set me anew against that hope.

Maybe my lunch date with Marty tomorrow would set that straight, one way or another.

Meanwhile, I had more of the detritus of Charlotte’s life to go through.