A Cold Christmas (17 page)

“What time did you go to bed last night?”

“Ten o'clock, like always. Was it after ten that she fell? Poor soul. What happened?”

“Apparently, the railing on her back steps broke.”

“Oh, my dear Lord.” She put fingertips against her mouth. “She wasn't outside all night long in this cold? Ida Ruth isn't exactly a kind person, but I wouldn't wish that on anybody.”

Susan escaped after a few more exclamations and went to the next house. No better luck there. People stayed in with the windows shut.

She didn't get anything until she got to Myrna Cleary. Middle-aged and overweight, Myrna wheezed when she opened the door. She hadn't seen anything or heard anything. “Poor Ida Ruth.”

“How does she get along with her son?”

“He's awfully good to her. I see him over there all the time working on things.”

And maybe loosening a stair railing while he's at it?

“Nobody gets along very well with Ida Ruth. She just isn't a getting-along-with kind of person. And she does try to run his life, I expect. When somebody is telling you what to do all the time, you're not just eager to be with them day after day, are you?”

“Did they have a quarrel?”

“Not that I know of. And I know he does come over to take her shopping and the like. Takes care of the house. Cleans the gutters and does the painting and such.”

“Did you ever see Tim Holiday over there?”

“The one got hisself killed at Caley's house?”

“Yes,” Susan said.

“Didn't know him at all. Don't think I've ever seen him.”

“He wasn't ever here to repair your furnace?”

“No. It's been working along just fine, thank the Lord. But there was a boy a few days ago.”

“What age?”

“Oh me, I didn't see him, not to take a good look at. Just a boy. He was in the backyard is how I came to notice him. Ida Ruth only has the two granddaughters, you see.”

“What did this boy look like?”

“Well—” She thought. “Tall boy. He was wearing a red-and-white jacket, one of those puffy ones that all the kids are wearing these days.”

“Down,” Susan said. “Was he slender?”

“Hard to tell, isn't it? But I would think so.” She screwed her eyes shut. “Blue jeans, I believe.”

“Hair color?”

“Blond hair. Light-colored, anyway. That's about all I can tell you. Oh, except he had on cowboy boots. Black and silver, they were.”

Twelve-year-old Zach James was tall, and he had a red-and-white ski jacket. He also had a pair of black-and-silver boots.

22

Using the radio in the pickup, Susan checked in with Hazel. “Anything that needs my immediate attention?”

“Nope. But we had another one.”

“Burglary?”

“You got it.”

“Damn it!” Susan took three deep breaths. “Okay, keep White on it. I'm going to the hospital to see how Ida Ruth Dandermadden is doing and then I'm going to Woodsonville.”

*   *   *

The hospital doors whooshed open as she trotted up. She headed for the elevators and Ida Ruth in the ICU.

A nurse was straightening the sheets and checking lines to various machines.

“How is she?” Susan asked.

The frail old woman in the bed looked as though her skin were paper thin on a face with high cheekbones and a prominent nose. Her hands, resting on the top of the white sheet, looked like gray talons. A breath rasped through her throat, then nothing, then another breath. Her chest, bony under the sheet, barely moved.

The nurse, a young woman wearing a short-sleeved yellow shirt and white pants, motioned Susan outside. She had short brown hair, bangs cut straight across, a turned-up nose, and a no-nonsense manner. The pin on her shirt pocket said Amy. “She's not good. Broken hip. Pneumonia. And a stroke. That's why she can't speak much. Her son hired me to make sure she gets everything she needs. I think after she dies he doesn't want to feel like he didn't do everything he could.”

“Has she said anything?”

“Nothing that makes sense.”

“Like what?”

“‘You there.' She's said that several times.”

“Was she talking to you?”

“No. She might not even know that I'm here. She probably wouldn't like it if she did, poor lady. Her son told me when he hired me she wasn't the easiest person to get along with.” Amy smiled. “I told him I could handle her. I'm used to all kinds.”

Susan believed it. The arms under her short-sleeved shirt had a lot of muscle.

“She said, ‘Boy. You, boy,' a couple of times. I can't make out much. ‘No' a time or two. And ‘Wait.' Like she was telling someone to wait for something, you know?”

“She's unconscious?” Susan said.

“You can't ask questions and get answers, if that's what you mean. What she can hear—” Amy shrugged. “That's another thing.”

Susan hadn't expected anything different. Still, it would have been nice to have Ida Ruth explain what all her mumbles had been about.

Susan thanked Amy and headed back out to the parking lot.

*   *   *

Woodsonville was a small farming community with a population of 425, according to the rusted sign on the edge of town. Water tower, city park with deserted playground equipment, and a downtown section five businesses long. She had no trouble finding the bank, brick and stone with two large rectangular windows across the front.

The county sheriff with a warrant, Susan, a bank official, and someone from Internal Revenue all crowded into the vault area. Susan handed over the key she'd found in Holiday's apartment and the bank official slipped it into the lock. He had some trouble getting it open, but finally managed and pulled out the box. He placed it on a table.

With everyone watching, Susan opened the safe-deposit box. Inside, there was a Texas driver's license in the name of Fredrick Joyce with an address in Dallas, two credit cards with the same name, an Oklahoma driver's license with the name William Forbes, five thousand dollars in twenties and fifties, and some papers for accounts in the Cayman Islands. The bank official added up the amounts and whistled. He showed the number to Susan. Three million dollars.

Neither Fredrick Joyce nor William Forbes was poor. When she got back to the department, she asked Hazel to send a copy of the prints from Holiday's apartment to the Texas Department of Justice and to whatever the same thing was called in Oklahoma.

23

Susan threw off muffler and coat, sat at her desk, and pried the lid from the coffee. Steam rose. She took a sip. Hot, not exciting. One of these days she'd make a pot of Peet's coffee, fix some bacon and eggs, and share all that wonderful cholesterol with Perissa.

Her phone buzzed and she picked it up. “The mayor on the line,” Hazel said.

“What this time?”

“Since you didn't respond to his phone calls, he assumes you don't want to be a reindeer in the Christmas parade. You can ride with the Boots and Saddles.”

“Did you point out that I don't have a horse, to say nothing of a boot or a saddle?” Or any of the rest of the regalia. They did the Old West motif with lots of fringed buckskin, cowboy hats, and fancy holsters sporting six-guns strapped to their waists. They also did some impressive drills that, even if she had a horse, she couldn't do on short notice.

Hazel's voice bubbled with laughter.

“Tell him that, with everyone sick with the flu, I'm going to have to direct traffic while the parade is passing by.”

“I'll tell him you're not in.”

An hour later, Hazel buzzed again. “Beth called from the library and said the microfilms you wanted are in.”

Susan grabbed her coat and ran.

At the library, she slipped in the first film and focused the machine.

In White Water, Texas, on December 24 twelve years ago, Deirdre Noel was stabbed thirty or more times. Blood covered the bedroom walls, floors, and the stairway down to the kitchen.

Branner Noel, the victim's husband, was picked up the following day, Christmas, arrested, and put in jail. Two days later a grand jury was convened and he was indicted. No bail allowed.

The White Water paper was a weekly, and each week the bulk of it was filled with articles about the homicide, the brutality of the murder, repeated mention of thirty or more stabbings. Wounds were described and emphasis placed on the blood that started in the bedroom and ended in the kitchen. Photos of the victim and suspect were prominent.

There was also a photo of court security struggling with a man whose face was twisted in rage, identified as the father of the victim. He came into the courtroom with a handgun, intent on shooting the defendant. He was disarmed and sent home. Jesus. No mention of his being charged with anything, no mention of his name. She went through the articles a second time and made copies of each one.

Why was Holiday so interested in the murder trial of Branner Noel?

At the shop, she arranged for a copy of the court transcript to be sent to her by overnight shipping. She asked Hazel to find Demarco. Ten minutes later he stood at attention before her desk, back stiff as iron.

“Run a make on Frederick Joyce and William Forbes.” She told him she'd found the safe-deposit box and what was in it.

He nodded, spun on his heel, and marched out.

She sighed. Would Parkhurst ever get over this damn flu and get back to work?

She yawned and rubbed her grainy eyes. Go home, she told herself. Soon, she promised, and put in a call to the prison where Branner Noel had been incarcerated. She asked to speak with the warden. Warden Marble was away for the Christmas holiday. She asked for the assistant warden. He'd gone home for the day. Nobody else was authorized to give out information on an inmate. She left her name and numbers—office, home, and cell phone—and requested that Assistant Warden High call her when he got in.

From Information, she learned that White Water, Texas, didn't have a police department. Putting her hands on her neck, she stretched it back until it cracked, then she massaged it. No more phone calls. Enough already. She needed to get out of here. That sounded so good, she was reaching for her coat when she pushed herself to make just one more call. She asked Hazel if they had a map of Texas.

A minute later, Hazel came in lugging a large atlas and dropped it on Susan's desk. “It's old, so some things have changed. What did you need?”

“I want to find out what county White Water is in.”

Jackson County. She picked up the phone for the last call of the day, she promised herself, and got the sheriff's department in Jackson County. She explained she wanted to know about the murder of Deirdre Noel that occurred twelve years ago.

“Twelve years?”

Right. How could her weary mind explain succinctly and clearly? “A homicide that occurred twelve years ago may have a bearing on a homicide I'm currently investigating.”

“Uh—well, maybe Sheriff Riggs might know something about that. He's been here that long, but he's out right now. Could I take your number?”

Of course, he was out. She recited her office number, her home number, and the number of her cell phone, then heaved herself up from the chair and reached for her coat. When the phone rang, she eyed it narrowly, but sighed and picked it up.

“Mayor Bakover on the line,” Hazel said.

Susan fled.

On the way home, she stopped to pick up a pizza. Not bothering to even check her phone messages, she sat at the table with Perissa perched on one corner. Pizza, a beer, and she was sufficiently stuffed and so weary she had difficulty hefting herself to her feet.

Before she trudged upstairs to bed, she stopped at her home office to see if anything urgent was on her answering machine. Two hang-ups, a message from her father telling her to call him, and the voice of Mort Stoddart, former San Francisco cop, now with the FBI.

“Because it's the season of giving and because I remember you busting your chops to save my ass that time I screwed up and let a suspect get away, I got your prints identified for you. Don't ask me how. I'm going to be paying back favors for years. The prints belong to a Branner Noel, convicted for murder twelve years ago. Don't say I never repay my debts. Merry Christmas.”

She replayed the message. Tim Holiday was actually Branner Noel, and he'd been reading about the homicide he committed twelve years ago. Who killed Holiday/Noel? Why had he been released from prison? She assumed he'd been released and hadn't escaped somehow. Why had he come to Hampstead? Was his death related to the homicide of his wife all those years ago? Revenge? That would mean someone was here, or had been here, who was involved in the homicide of Holiday/Noel's wife. Who? Was he or she still here?

And how did Caley come into this? She hadn't even known Holiday/Noel.

Susan took herself to bed and let her mind pick over the questions all night.

24

With the cat's help, Susan managed to drag herself out of the warm bed and stumble into the shower. The shower didn't do a lot, but she managed to pull on some dark blue pants and a white sweater. She dumped dry food into Perissa's bowl, and the cat sniffed it and gave her the how-could-you look.

The pickup groaned and grumbled before it finally caught. She sat shivering while it warmed up enough to move. It was even longer before the heater blew out hot air. Another dark, cold, clear morning. The stars, not knowing another day had started, glittered as brightly as though it were the dead of night. At the Coffee Cup Cafe, she got two sugar doughnuts to take with her. She thought of getting something for Hazel, but knew Hazel wouldn't eat it. Not healthy.

It wasn't yet six o'clock when Susan got in. Hazel was at her desk. Had to get up pretty early in the morning to beat her.

“The court records just came,” Hazel said. “I put them on your desk. And I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”