Cadbury Creme Murder (6 page)

Heather
sat cross-legged on her back stoop, watching Dave run around in the yard and
sniff as many different objects as he could.  A frown wrinkled her forehead,
but she didn’t notice.

She
had the distinct feeling she was missing something.  Something important. 
Something that would make sense out of all the non-clues in the Verna Dixon
case, or at least push one or more of those clues to the fore so that the
solution would be obvious.

After
all,
someone
had wanted to kill Verna Dixon.  Even if she couldn’t yet
find a sufficient motive, someone had had one—at least one that he or she
regarded as sufficient.

Was
it Dr. Edward Banner, who may or may not have had an argument with Verna?  The
other volunteer from Caring Hearts, whose name she still didn’t know, who had
good reason to dislike Verna?  Wilbur Smith, the abrasive neighbor with a
temper, who wanted Verna’s land?

Wait
a minute.  Edward Banner may have been arguing with Verna, but what would have
been his motive to kill her?  Lots of people had arguments and didn’t wind up
killing the person they had argued with. 

Well,
if they were arguing, what were they arguing about?  Kristen, the nurse, had
said Banner always got upset when he lost a patient, especially one who was a
Vietnam vet.  Probably some sort of brothers-in-arms thing.  But Banner had
denied being upset and said that it was Verna who’d been upset.  Said she
needed comforting, in fact.

Something
didn’t ring true about that.  Even if the two of them weren’t arguing, there
must have been some reason for the witness to think they were.  Unless, of
course, the witness was lying.  But there didn’t seem to be a motive for that,
either.  How could it benefit anyone to say that Banner and Verna were arguing
about a patient? 

But
if the witness was telling the truth, that meant Banner was lying.  Why?  Was
it that he didn’t want anyone to know he had been arguing with someone who
wound up being a murder victim not too long afterward?

Or…was
there another reason?  Could it possibly have been that Banner didn’t want
anyone knowing the subject matter of their argument?  That they were arguing
about a patient?

Heather
sat straight up as the tumblers began to fall into place.  Verna and Banner had
been arguing (of which she was now certain) about a patient who had died.  Was
it possible that Verna believed Banner had somehow committed medical malpractice
in failing to properly treat his patient, thus hastening or failing to prevent
the patient’s death?

That
would explain why Verna had needed some time off.  She was used to patients
dying; she worked in ICU and in hospice care, after all.  Yet she had been
particularly upset about this death, which would make perfect sense if she felt
that Banner was in some way to blame.

Another
tumbler clicked into place.  Eva had said Verna was worried about something,
worried enough that she had a hard time sleeping, and that she’d said she had a
decision to make.  What if she were considering reporting Banner for
malpractice?

You’re
adding two and two and getting five
,
she told herself.  But it was possible that she was right, wasn’t it? 
Shouldn’t she at least check out that hypothesis?

Maybe
so.  But how would she do that?  She couldn’t ask Verna what she’d been worried
about, and she couldn’t very well march up to Banner and ask him if Verna had
told him she thought he was guilty of malpractice.

She
stood up, dusted off the seat of her jeans, and headed inside.  Her cell phone
lay on the kitchen counter, and she punched in William Dixon’s number, thankful
he’d given it to her the other day when she and Eva had been out at Verna’s
house.  The phone rang once.  Twice.  Three times.

“Hello?”

“William? 
This is Heather Janke.  I’m the friend who came out to your mother’s home with
Eva Schneider the other day.”

“Yes,
Heather.  I remember you.”

“I’m
so sorry to disturb you.  But I was wondering if there was any way I could look
through your mother’s things like her computer, her desk, stuff like that.”

“What
would you be looking for?”

“For
any indication she was aware of a malpractice case at the hospital or intended
to take action about reporting it.”

William’s
voice lost some of its weariness.  “Do you think this has to do with her
murder?”

“If
I find anything along those lines, I guarantee you it has something to do with
her murder,” Heather said.

“Then
please, look at anything you want.  I’ll meet you out there.  I’ll be in my
wife’s car.  She’s here in town with me now.  Twenty minutes?”

“I
really appreciate this.”

“I’ll
see you then.”

She
grabbed her purse, dropped her phone into it, and headed for the car.  Fifteen
minutes later, she pulled into Verna’s driveway behind a gold Lexus.  She got
out, walked up the porch steps to the back door, and knocked.  There was no
answer.  Maybe William was in a part of the house where he couldn’t hear her.

Heather
turned the knob, and the door opened.  She stepped inside, calling, “William! 
It’s Heather!”

She
shut the door behind her and set her purse down on the counter.  Grabbing her
cell phone, she slid it into a rear pocket of her jeans.  As footsteps
approached from the direction of the living room, she decided to wait next to
the kitchen table.

“Hello,
Heather,” a voice said calmly as a figure stepped around the corner. 

But
the person who stood facing her was not William.

And
he was holding a gun pointed straight at her chest.

***

“Dr.
Banner?” she gasped through lips that had gone dry.

“You
have bad timing,” he said.  “Another five minutes, and I would have been gone.”

“Look,
I don’t know what’s going on here—”

“I
think you do.  I think we’re both here looking for the same thing.”

“You
killed Verna,” she said.

“I
eliminated a threat,” he countered.

“How
could a little old lady have been a threat to you?”

“I
think you’ve figured that out,” he said.

“She
was going to accuse you of malpractice, wasn’t she?  Of some mistake you made
that cost your patient his life.”

“Maybe
you don’t have it figured out, after all,” he said, eyebrows rising slightly. 
“I guess you’re not as good at unraveling mysteries as everyone says you are.”

“Why
don’t you explain it to me?” she suggested, desperate to keep him talking.

“No,
I don’t think so.”

“Can
you at least put the gun down, and we can talk?”

“I
can’t do that,” he answered.  “This thing has gone too far.”

Without
taking her eyes off Banner or the weapon in his hand, Heather shifted her
weight to the foot that was closest to the door.

“I
wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Banner said.  “In Vietnam, I got used to
hitting moving targets.  Even with a handgun, I could hit you dead center from
a hundred yards away.”

“You
served in Vietnam?” she asked, scrambling for something, anything, to say in
order to keep him talking.

He
went on as if he hadn’t heard her.  “Of course, most of my targets in ’Nam were
much farther away than that.  Fifteen hundred yards.  Two thousand.  My longest
confirmed kill was at 2,150 yards.”

A
sniper?  He’d been a
sniper
in Vietnam?  Oh, dear God, she was doomed.

“You
should know,” she began, trying to keep her voice steady, “that someone is
meeting me here.  He should be here any second.”  She strained to hear even the
faintest crunch of car tires on gravel.  But she heard nothing.

“Your
cop boyfriend is busy on another case,” Banner said.  “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m
not bluffing,” she said, trying to sound confident.  It was hard, with her
heart pounding a staccato rhythm in her chest.  “He should be here any time.”

“If
you’re talking about William, he won’t be coming to rescue you, either.  He and
his wife and their children are meeting with the minister who is going to
preside over the funeral.  Don’t you think I checked out the whereabouts of the
only person who would have a right to be here before I came?”

“I’m
sure you did,” she said.  “But you don’t have to kill me.  You really don’t. 
Nobody’s going to believe the word of a volunteer over the word of the Chief of
Internal Medicine.  Your patient was close to death, anyway.  Even if Verna had
some sort of records here of what she thought, whatever she believed your
mistake was, no one would take her word over yours.”

Heather
knew she was babbling.  Repeating herself.  But it was all she could think of
to do.  Banner’s eyes were fixed on her, his expression alert but not
flustered.  Calm. 
Eerily
calm.

“You
really don’t get it, do you?” he said.  “Verna wasn’t going to accuse me of
making a mistake.”

“But
you said she was going to accuse you of malpractice,” Heather protested.

A
scornful smile lifted one corner of his mouth.  But he said nothing, instead
watching her intently.

And
in a blinding flash of insight, she realized what he meant.  Verna wasn’t going
to accuse him of making a mistake that caused his patient’s death.  She was
going to accuse him of causing the death
on purpose
.

Oh,
dear God.

“You
killed him on purpose,” she whispered.

“I
‘released him from his suffering,’” he corrected.  “Him, and a few others.  So
now you understand.  I assume you also understand why I have to kill you.”

“But
you don’t,” she protested.  “There’s no way I could prove it.  You could walk
out of here scot-free.”

“No,”
he said.  “It’s too late for that.”

She
made one last-ditch effort.  “Any second, now,” she said, “William will be
here, and—”

Banner
interrupted her.  “Then we don’t have much time,” he said coolly.  His index
finger tightened on the trigger.

KA-BOOM!

Heather
screamed, clutching desperately at the table.

But
she wasn’t falling.

It
was Banner who was crumpling to the floor before her eyes. 

Sucking
in great, heaving gulps of air, Heather’s shocked mind was unable to comprehend
what had just happened.  “You ain’t hurt,” a voice said, sounding like it was
coming from miles away.  “I got him.  You’re okay.”

Disbelievingly,
she turned toward the back door to see who had fired the shot.

And
looked straight into the lined face of Wilbur Smith.

William
did, indeed, arrive only moments later as she sat huddled on the back stoop
next to Wilbur Smith.  “Heather?  What’s the matter?” he asked, seeing the look
on her face.  He glanced from one of them to the other, then to the open back
door.

“You’re
not going to believe this,” she said, but was interrupted by the arrival of the
first patrol car with its lights blazing and siren blaring.  The car screeched
to a stop at an angle without entering the driveway.  The driver’s door was
shoved open, and the driver crouched down behind it, his hand on his gun. 

“Officer
Foley, Hillside PD!” he shouted.  “We got a report that someone was shot. 
Where’s the gun?”

Wilbur
Smith stood up and took a couple of slow steps toward the officer.  “I’m the
one who—”

“Stop
right there!” Foley ordered.  “Where’s the gun?”

Smith
came to a stop in the driveway.  “It’s in my waistband,” he answered.

“Sir,
I need you to stand right there until we get some more officers here and we can
figure out what’s going on,” Foley said. 

Seconds
later, a second car skidded to a stop, and another officer joined the first. 
After that, it seemed like officers were arriving in droves.  Foley ordered
Smith to slowly remove his gun from his waistband and lay it on the ground,
then back away.  Another officer secured the gun in the trunk of his vehicle.

Smith
obeyed.  William’s mouth dropped open as he and Heather raised their hands,
too.  “Where’s the gun?” the officer repeated.

“It’s
in my waistband.”

“I
need you to stay right there until another officer gets here,” Foley
instructed.

Ten
seconds later, another patrol car slid to a stop, and a second officer joined
Foley.  After that, it seemed that officers were arriving in droves.  Foley
ordered Smith to lay the gun on the ground, then back away.  An assist officer
secure the weapon in the trunk of his vehicle.

Two
officers led Smith to the porch of his own home; others allowed William and
Heather to sit at opposite ends of Verna’s front porch.  The ambulance arrived,
and the paramedics went inside.  A few minutes later, they came back out, and
more officers went in.

“May
I make a phone call?” Heather asked one of the officers standing on the porch
with them.

“Not
yet, ma’am.  I’m sorry,” he answered.

Another
officer, whose silver name tag read Carlson, took her name, address, phone
number, and other basic information.  “Can you tell me what happened tonight?”
he asked. 

“I
was supposed to meet William here,” she answered.  “Just to go through some of
his mother’s things.  We thought maybe there would be something there that was
connected to her murder.”

“What
time?”

“No
certain time.  After we hung up, we were both going to leave right away and get
here as soon as we could.  When I got here and saw there was a car in the
driveway, I thought it was William.  But it wasn’t.”

Slowly,
because it seemed that a fog of unreality was enveloping her brain and making
it hard to think, Heather told him about knocking on the door.  About trying
the knob and stepping inside.  About discovering that the person who was there
was not William, as she had thought, but Edward Banner.

And
as she gave him the details and answered his questions, one thought kept
circling in her mind:
I wish Ryan were here.

But
he wasn’t.  And when two homicide detectives arrived, he wasn’t among them.

***

“Do
you have any rum?” Amy asked, opening the cabinet where Heather kept her
liquor. 

Wrapped
in an afghan, sitting on the couch with her legs tucked up under her, Heather
leaned backwards toward the kitchen.  “Should be up there,” she said.

“Never
mind, I found it,” came Amy’s voice.  “I’m making you hot buttered rum.”

Heather
sat listening to her rattle things around in the kitchen.  After awhile, Amy
brought two glasses into the living room and handed one to her.  “Drink up,”
she said.  “You need it.”

“I’m
okay,” Heather said.  “Really.”

Amy’s
eyebrows rose.  “And you’ll be even better after you drink that,” she said. 
“So, okay, tell me the details.  When you’re ready.”

Once
again, she went through the story, skimming over the details because she was
tired of thinking about them.  All she wanted to do was close her eyes and go
to sleep.

“So
did your boyfriend show up to work the case?” Amy asked.

“Ex-boyfriend,”
Heather corrected.  “And no, he didn’t.  They sent out two detectives, but I
didn’t know either of them.”

“Where
was Ryan?”

“No
clue.  Not that I have a right to know anymore.”

“Well,
maybe he’ll call.  Surely he’ll at least call and say ‘hey, glad you’re okay.’”

Heather
shrugged as silence fell.  She toyed with the fringe on the afghan that covered
her.

“I
brought an overnight bag,” Amy said finally.  “I can stay over tonight if you
want.”

“You
don’t have to.  I’ll be fine.”

“I
know you will be.  But sometimes it’s nice to be fine
with
someone
instead of all by yourself.”

Heather
nodded.  “You’re right.”

“I’ll
go get my bag,” Amy said.

***

When
Heather woke sometime in the middle of the night, it took her a few moments to
remember why she was on the couch.  Why wasn’t she in her own bed?

But
then, she remembered.  She’d gone to Verna’s house and gone inside, only to
find out that the person there before her wasn’t William, but Banner.  Then,
Banner had threatened to kill her.  And he would have succeeded, if it hadn’t
been for Wilbur Smith and his excellent marksmanship with the gun he had previously
denied to the police that he owned.

Glancing
toward the arm chair at the end of the couch, she saw Amy’s curled-up form
huddled under a blanket, snoring softly. 
Thank God for friends,
she
thought.  For friends who would come over, make you a drink, talk, and then
stay the night with you.

That
should have been enough to comfort her.  And she felt guilty that it wasn’t.

Because
the one person she really wanted to be with her was not the person who slept
squashed into a too-small armchair.  Instead, it was the one person who wasn’t
there at all.  Who hadn’t even called.

Ryan.

***

Nor
did he call, or come by, or even text her in the next three weeks, while the
investigation into Banner’s death concluded and was sent to the DA, and he took
it to the Grand Jury, and the Grand Jury returned a no-bill.

Not
one attempt to contact her and say, “Hey, glad you’re okay.”

It
was his utter silence toward her that, more than anything, convinced her their
relationship was over.

On
the day of the no-bill, Eva showed up at Donut Delights with a small box. 
Heather noticed it when she refilled Eva’s coffee.  It looked like a box
jewelry might come in.  But why would Eva have jewelry with her?

“Do
you have time to sit down?” Eva asked.

Heather
slid into the seat across from her.  “I always have time for you, Eva.”

Eva
pushed the box toward her.  “This is for you.”

Heather
reached for the box as she gave Eva a questioning look.  “Just open it,” Eva
said.  “Then I’ll explain.”

Carefully,
she lifted the lid off the box to reveal a silver necklace, to which was
attached a single pearl in a silver setting.  “This is beautiful, Eva,” she
said, holding the necklace in both hands.  “But why?”

“It
was Verna’s,” Eva said softly.  “After all you did for her in making sure her
killer was caught, and even in facing him yourself, I asked William if I could
select something of his mother’s for you.”

“But
I can’t—this looks valuable,” she protested.

“William
wants you to have it,” Eva said.  “He would have given it to you himself, but
he’s not able to make a trip back here right now.  He asked me if I would
present it to you with deepest thanks.”

Heather
unhooked the delicate clasp and refastened the pendant around her neck.  “Thank
you,” she said.  “Both you and William.”

Because
Heather was looking down at the way the pearl lay delicately against her
blouse, she didn’t see the person who came in the door.  “Heather?” Eva said,
and Heather looked up at her friend.  “I think you need to see who just came
in.”

Heather
swiveled in her seat to see…Ryan, who stood silently as she met his gaze.

Slowly,
she stood, pushed back her chair, and walked the few yards across the floor to
face him.  “Something I can help you with?” she asked, surprised that her voice
sounded calm.

“We
need to talk,” he said.

She
hesitated.  “Okay,” she said finally.  “We can use my office.”

“No,
not here,” he said.  “Can you get away for a few minutes?  My car’s parked
right out front.”

“I
suppose so,” she said, taking a step backwards toward the kitchen.  “Let me
just tell Maricela I’m going.”

***

“Where
are we going?” she asked two minutes later as Ryan pulled his car away from the
curb.

“The
park,” he said. 

Neither
one of them said another word as he drove across town and found an empty parking
space by the playground, which was, for the moment, deserted.  “Shall we sit on
the bench?” he asked. 

“Sure,”
she said.  They got out of the car, and Heather took a seat at one end of the
green wooden bench.  Ryan sat at the other end.

A
light breeze stirred the air as Heather met his gaze.  “What did you want to
talk about?” she asked.

“I’ve
been doing a lot of thinking in the last three and a half weeks,” he said. 
“And I’ve realized some things.”

“Before
you tell me what you realized, why don’t you tell me why you didn’t call me
when you heard about Banner, and what almost happened?” she asked.  “I know we
weren’t dating anymore, but it would have been nice if you had at least called
and said ‘glad you’re okay.’”

“I
couldn’t call you,” he said.

“Really? 
Your cell phone was on the fritz for three weeks?  You forgot my number and
didn’t know how to look it up?”

“I
was told not to call you.”

“You
were—what?  Who would tell you something like that?” she asked.

“May
I explain?”

“I’m
listening.”

“The
evening that Banner almost killed you,” he began, “I was sitting at home
watching TV.  March Madness.  The phone rang, and it was the chief.  He told me
what had happened out there.  Told me you were okay.  And told me it would be
best if I stayed away from you until the Grand Jury made its decision.  That
way, no one could ever come back and say I influenced your testimony, or you
influenced my investigation.”