Best Place to Die (15 page)

It was one of those strange points in her life, like walking down the aisle with Bradley or the surreal morning she awoke to find him dead in bed, where time loses meaning. Each second stretched and warped, she couldn't have been alone in that room for more than fifteen seconds. So many competing thoughts, as she stood in the doorway, click click click. Her finger and the dripping blood the only movement. A pit in her gut at the finality of his death . . .
Suicide?
Gun in his hand, shot under the jaw – ‘
Did it right
,' Bradley would have said, followed by: ‘
Damn shame.
'

Finally, with an angry bang the opposite door splintered, shuddered and the brass bolt ripped out of the lock plate. Click click click and she dropped the camera into her pocket, not wanting a repeat of what she'd gone through first with Hank and then with Mattie. She felt pangs of regret for shots she could have snapped as the agents, leading with their guns, entered Wally's office. For a brief moment the younger of the two stared down his barrel at her. ‘You shouldn't be here.'

‘I know,' she said softly. Letting his dark eyes get a good look at her, hands at her sides, just a middle-aged lady out for a stroll . . . or whatever. All the while squirreling away details, the faint smell of gunpowder, the position of the body, birdsong through the open door, the time on the clock – 12.22.
Lil, you have just over an hour and a half to get this story written and submitted.

The older, heavyset agent was on his cell, breathing audibly, his face red, the back of his jacket deeply wrinkled, like he'd been sitting in a car for a long time. And weirdly, she thought of her oldest, Barbara, a Hollywood casting agent. Not her so much but the way she described people, all reduced to types for roles and potential actors. Her decisions fluidly based on the movie's budget and a multitude of tinsel-town variables she'd describe in gleeful detail after her second glass of wine. The younger man, even featured, tall, dark and handsome would be the star. And if Barbara were here, she'd rattle off first-name possibilities: Keanu, Benjamin, Brad, Leo . . . and the older out of shape guy, his wise mentor. Get some well-known name, but past his prime, maybe Brian or Danny, possibly Bruce. Lil noted that neither one checked Wally for a pulse. What would be the point? Dead is dead.

‘Did you touch anything?' her leading man asked.

‘No, just the door; it was unlocked.'

He nodded. ‘Great. And you are?'

‘Lil Campbell.'

‘The reporter?'

She felt a rush of euphoria from his question. For the first time she wasn't Doc Campbell's wife, or June and Arthur's girl. ‘Yes,' she said, not knowing if in fact that was true.
I mean really,
she thought,
I've had a single news story, and the rest . . . tips for haggling at the flea market, or how to read hallmarks on English sterling. Does that make me a reporter? But clearly this man saw my byline in the morning paper. He read my article.

‘Did you know him?'

‘Marginally,' she said. And, nodding in the direction of the wall of framed photos: ‘He was kind of a small-town hero a long time ago.'

The agent snorted. ‘Yeah . . .' He caught sight of Doyle's cell. ‘Dan, we need to check the history on that.'

His partner, still on the phone, looked at the cell, then at him and then at Lil. ‘What's she doing here?'

‘Reporter,' he said.

‘Get her out of here.'

Lil's ears strained to catch the older man's conversation. The only words she caught: ‘Crime scene . . . now . . . stiff.' And curiously: ‘Not our job.'

‘You need to wait downstairs, and don't go anywhere,' the younger agent cautioned. ‘We'll need a statement.'

‘Of course.' She moved slowly, taking a final look. The one door clearly had been locked and the side entrance open as she'd found it. If this had been a murder did she just screw up evidence by putting her hand on that knob? The other agent, now off the phone, was standing back. He looked at Lil, and then to his partner. ‘Alex, get the camera.'

‘Right.' He looked uncertain. ‘How long till they get here?'

The older guy – possibly a paunched-out Bruce Willis – shrugged. ‘You got someplace else to be?'

‘Come on, Ms Campbell.'

‘And your name?' Inching back through the open door.

He shook his head. ‘Agent Brant.' He gave a crooked smile. ‘Alex.'

Yes, very good looking
, she thought, her eyes wandering to his ring finger – nothing there. ‘Suicide?' she asked.

‘Could be –' turning back to dead Wally – ‘or else someone making it look like one.'

‘I don't see a note,' she offered, trying to buy a few last seconds in the room, and noting his rumpled jacket . . . and how quickly the two agents had gotten there. ‘You had him under surveillance.'

‘Ms Campbell.' His expression was less friendly. ‘Out, now, and don't leave, stay in the pool area . . . please.' He moved toward her, looking down at the door. ‘Come on.'

Feeling like livestock being led through a paddock, she went down the stairs with Agent Alex – possibly Keanu – a close step behind.

‘He must have been on the cell,' she offered. ‘Which, considering there's a regular phone on the desk, you have to wonder why.'

‘Fishing, are we?' He chuckled. ‘Why don't you wait over there, I don't know how long you'll have to stay. They probably won't get here for half an hour.'

‘Who?'

‘Crime-scene team, and a couple agents from a major-crime unit.'

‘You're not?' she asked, wondering what Wally Doyle had done that warranted a surveillance team of FBI agents.

‘No . . .' He looked at her, clearly aware she was hungry for this story. ‘Fraud.'

‘Interesting.' They were now at the bottom of the steps. Across the closed-up pool, with its tautly stretched black safety cover, she watched Jennifer Doyle emerge through the screen door. Her curiosity was off the charts. ‘Fraud related to Nillewaug?'

‘I got to get my camera,' he said, and left her.

‘You know my husband was their medical director,' she nearly shouted after him. It was a blind stab, but he stopped dead, and turned.

‘You were married to Dr Trask?'

‘Norman Trask?' His answer not at all what she'd expected. ‘Didn't he retire a couple decades ago?'

‘Then Dr Stanley?'

‘No,' she replied, seeing that this had him truly interested. ‘My husband was Bradley Campbell. He was their first medical director. He felt there was something wrong about that place and didn't stay on long. I think Gordon Stanley took the pos-ition after him; I thought he was still doing it.'

‘Did your husband go into any detail, about why he left?'

She felt her audience slipping, but what exactly had led Bradley to give up the lucrative side job? It was over ten years ago, and while there was little Bradley kept from her, there had been something strange about his turning down the Nillewaug position. ‘I don't recall,' she said, regretting her lame answer.

‘Well, if you do . . .' His head rose at the sound of a siren from down in the valley, and he jogged back to his car.

‘Mrs Campbell?' Jennifer Doyle's voice from the back deck, where she stood looking toward the pool house. ‘Is Wally . . .?' Her voice drifted.

‘He's dead,' Lil stated simply, and watched Jennifer's face for the reaction. And while tempted to pull out the camera, she didn't.

Jennifer Doyle bit her lower lip and bobbed her head slightly. Something about her, lean to the point of anorexia –
Jack Spratt and his wife
. Her face a mask of worry, deep lines around her eyes and at the corners of her thin lips. Her collarbones protruding from the scoop neck of her yellow blouse. ‘Should I go back there?' she asked.

‘I wouldn't,' Lil offered, walking around the edge of the pool, careful of the cords that held the cover bolted to rings in the patio.

Jennifer seemed frozen, her hands resting on the rail. ‘He shot himself?'

‘It looks that way,' Lil said, noting the signs of shock, her unfocused stare, the information not yet fully registering.

‘They didn't give him a choice.' Her words were clipped.

‘Who?' Lil asked.

Her gaze shifted from the pool house to Lil. ‘Mrs Campbell, why are you here?'

Oh Lil
, she thought, rapidly sifting through possible answers and finding one that was both vague and true. ‘I heard a shot.'

She nodded. ‘He wasn't as stupid as everyone thought,' she said. ‘It's just . . . he was too trusting . . . I told him to take the deal. At least we would have come out of this, maybe been able to keep the house . . . maybe not. I told him it would have been OK. He should have taken it.'

‘What deal? With whom?'

‘I need to call the school,' she said. ‘I don't want the boys coming home to this.' And without another word, she vanished into the kitchen.

Lil pulled out her cell to check the time –
who, what, when, where, why
? Handsome Alex had returned and was methodically taking photos, and through the open pool gate she spotted Hank Morgan pulling up in his Explorer, accompanied by Kevin Simpson. Hank saw her and rolled his eyes.

Moving fast in her direction. ‘Getting to be a habit with you, Lil. And by the way, nice piece in
The Register
.'

‘Thanks.'

‘So.' He looked toward the pool house where agent Alex –
definitely Keanu
– was taking exterior shots. ‘What happened?'

In under thirty seconds she gave him the facts she knew.

He sighed. ‘Crap! More Feds.' And he went over to Alex. The men shook hands, and Hank went with the young agent up the side steps behind the shower.

‘Crap indeed,' Lil muttered, not at all familiar with the complexities of police work, but realizing there were at least three layers of law enforcement now involved in charming little Grenville. On her list of things to do: get educated about investigations and police work. This, however, was no time for hitting the books. She pulled out her phone and for the second time that morning called Edward Fleming. His assistant told her he was in a meeting. ‘It's important,' she said, wondering where this story fit in the hierarchy of things.
Is it really that important? Maybe you should wait for him to get back to you?
At what point, she wondered, would she use up whatever favors she had with the man? Clearly this was not what he wanted her doing, and yet . . . it's what she wanted.

He picked up. ‘What is it, Lil?'

Using the fewest words possible she pitched the story: Wally Doyle, Nillewaug's Chief Financial Officer, shot dead, a probable suicide in the setting of a federal fraud investigation.

And then something strange; Fleming chortled. Not a little, but Lil pictured the normally straight-laced editor with his wire-rimmed glances snorting through his nose. ‘And pictures, Lil? You got shots of the dead man, I'm assuming?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well done. So what's the problem?'

‘They told me not to leave the scene; I don't know for how long. The Grenville chief of police just got here, but considering both the Feds and the state police are involved, I'm thinking this is going to chew up my afternoon.'

‘Of course you can leave,' he said. ‘They're not charging you with anything . . . are they?'

‘No . . . at least I hope not. But . . .' It was difficult to put in words, and since the fire she'd been dealing with odd emotions. Things she didn't realize mattered, apparently did. It was not just that she was enjoying this sense of purpose, and of seeing her byline for something other than fluffy columns. There was something stronger, a forgotten hunger. She had wanted to be a journalist, and somehow she'd buried those ambitions;
apparently
, she mused,
buried doesn't mean dead
. It wasn't just that Keanu had instructed her to stay here, with some veiled threat that if she didn't there'd be consequences. Bottom line, she didn't want to leave. She wanted to catch every detail and glue it to the printed page.
Who what where when and why?
Her thoughts flipped through questions.
How does this fit in with Nillewaug? What exactly was Wally up to? Is that why he killed himself? Or did he kill himself?
And a weird excitement –
this is my story.

‘You don't have a laptop with wireless?' Fleming asked.

‘No,' she admitted, feeling like a rank amateur.

‘Get one,' he said, ‘but here's what you do.' He laughed again, and she wondered if he'd just used up his quota for the year. ‘This is the way it used to be. You're going to call my assistant, Fred Barrett, and read him your story. You do have a pad and paper, at least?'

‘Yes.'

‘OK. He'll type it up and I'll edit it myself . . . this time. The tricky part will be getting your camera out of there without arousing suspicion.'

‘I'll call a friend. It shouldn't be hard. She can attach them to an email.'

‘And, Lil . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Get it to me fast and make it good.'

A
da scanned the aisle of freezer cases, spotting her mother and Alice in the distance. They were hovering around a woman serving samples of pot-stickers, a bag of which were in her oversized cart. With her monthly coupons in hand she was comparing the stock number for the frozen spinach pies with the one on the circular. Never much of a cook, and pretty much fine with living on cottage cheese, Greek yogurt, tea, Chinese take-out and Danish butter cookies, she was now confronted with feeding a seemingly bottomless teen and now her mother and Alice. She knew that Lil, who did the bulk of the cooking, was getting swept up in something new and exciting. Ada didn't need to be told how important this was. At the fire, she'd seen a side of Lil she'd only glimpsed before, her eyes intense her face flushed. And this morning, the unmistakable elation Lil had felt at seeing her story – and it was really good – on the front page. No –
she needs to do this
– wondering if maybe she shouldn't rescue the poor sample lady from Rose and Alice who were treating her booth like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Double checking that there was no limit on the coupon she grabbed four multi-pack boxes of frozen spinach pies and deposited them in her cart. She was pulling out a box of jalapeño pepper poppers to read the nutritional information when her cell buzzed.