Death in a Summer Colony (18 page)

37

R
ay knocked, paused, and then knocked a second time. Just as he was about to leave, the curtain moved. A blurry-eyed Verity peered out at him. “What do you want?”

“I have a few more questions for you.” He stood and waited, finally the door swung open.

Verity blocked his entrance. “I have nothing more to tell you. You’re wasting my time and taxpayers’ money,” she argued, her breath reeking of alcohol.

“I need to clarify a few things.”

“Alright, alright, come in. Sit there at the table. I’ve just made some coffee. Do you want a mug?

“Please. Black.”

Verity placed a mug in front of him and filled it with coffee from a thick glass carafe, spilling some on the table and muttering an obscenity. She came back with a dish towel and clumsily wiped the surface. She dropped into the chair across from him, adding brandy, sugar and cream to her mug, and stirring slowly.

“I don’t know why you bother with me. Can’t you leave an old woman to her own grieving and sadness?”

“From our last conversation, I didn’t get the impression that you were going to do much grieving.”

“I’m not grieving for that bastard, Malcolm. The devil can take him. I’m grieving for all of us. This is our little paradise, and it’s been ruined, at least for this year. And for me, at my stage of life, every summer is magical, a special gift. And it’s been stolen away.

“And like I said, I don’t know why you are talking to me. You just don’t seem to get it, Sheriff. Malcolm was part of the billionaires’ club. Somewhere across the face of this planet people are celebrating. Maybe they are in Dubai or Abu Dhabi, perhaps Hong Kong or Beijing, or close like New York or Chicago, or somewhere in Europe, Paris, London.

“What you have to understand is Malcolm was a giant in a very exclusive club. He was smart and very shrewd. But perhaps most importantly, he was a worker. When he was on a project, Malcolm’s focus was there for 12, 14, 16 hours a day. People thought he was a gambler. He never gambled. He carefully calculated every investment and didn’t buy in until he knew that he was going to be successful. If that had been the end of it, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But Malcolm needed more. After he crushed someone in a business deal, he’d go out of his way to humiliate them further if he could.

“I don’t mean to be disparaging, Sheriff, but you are out of your league. In your wildest imagination you can’t envisage the world I’m talking about. You’re giving those men in far away places a good chuckle. There’s no way in hell that a backwoods sheriff in a one-horse town is ever going to figure this one out. You’d need the FBI and Interpol and scores of lawyers and accountants to discover what Malcolm’s been up to and who he’s screwed. What I’m telling you is that he had a heart of coal, as black as they come. He was a greatly flawed person. He obviously pushed the wrong people too far.

“And you can’t even begin to fathom the resources that were brought to bear in this assassination. I wonder how many people were on the ground, blending in, casing the place. Look how perfectly everything was done. And then they were gone. And ever since, you’ve been muddling around, looking through people’s trash, making a nuisance of yourself. You can go around and annoy people till hell freezes over, and you’re not going to find anything. There’s nothing here. Nothing.” She took several gulps of coffee and added more brandy. “So why don’t you just leave us alone?”

“If you’re finished with your rant, I’ve got a few questions for you,” said Ray.

Verity didn’t respond verbally, she just looked across the table scornfully.

“You’re telling me that this murder was done by outsiders, hired killers, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“But when we last talked, you told me you didn’t remember seeing anyone who looked out of place. Now you’re telling me that a team of assassins, hired by Mr. Wudbine’s enemies, is responsible for the crime.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Then Verity responded, “Well, I think I told you that no one in the colony was responsible. Given the way you and your people have been running around here like chickens with their heads cut off, you obviously didn’t get the message. I compliment you on your diligence, and forgive you for your complete naiveté.”

“My lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Verity gave Ray a startled look and chuckled, “So what are you thinking. I’m like one of those plovers on the beach trying to lead you away from my eggs?”

“I’m just reflecting on what you’ve told me. You’ve been a summer resident all your life. You know everyone connected with this place and their histories. You’ve told me you don’t recall seeing anyone around in recent weeks who shouldn’t have been here. And then you very aggressively contend that the murder was the work of professional killers hired by billionaires from far-off places. It doesn’t add up. And even if you don’t have any knowledge of the crime, you do have people you would probably like to protect: your son, perhaps your daughter-in-law, and Richard Grubbs, among others. And then there are people like Brenda Wudbine. If you thought she helped off your ex, perhaps you would feel you owed her some loyalty.” Ray paused and looked at her. “It would be ever so convenient if we went away. That’s not going to happen.”

Verity looked across the table, stood, picked up the carafe, and reached over and filled his mug. “It may be a bit tepid. Do you want me to put it in the microwave?”

“No. Let’s go over the same territory again. The night of the performance and during the weeks leading up to that time, did you see anyone around who didn’t seem to fit here?”

Verity was not quick to answer. “Like I said, lots of people come through here, visitors and whatnot, but I can’t say I saw anyone suspicious lurking about.”

“Elliott, your son, how did he and his father get on?”

“Do I have to answer questions about family members?”

“No. And if you know anything incriminating, I’m sure you wouldn’t tell me.”

“I won’t say Elliott adored his father, but they seemed to have a good working relationship. I was almost a bit jealous of how close they were.”

“And the daughter-in-law, Jill?”

“She was Malcolm’s right-hand person. He’s been obsessed with his legacy, as if good acts now would compensate for all the crap he’s pulled over the years. Jill has been the key player in his foundation. She’s the person that’s made it all work.”

“How do you get on with her?”

“Like I think I told you in one way or another, we don’t really have a relationship. I don’t understand why. I’ve tried. We’ve never clicked.”

“You told me you were reviewing your lines before the second scene. Do you remember seeing her about that time?”

“Yes and no. There was a swirl of activity in the green room. I probably saw everyone unconsciously or…well, you know what I mean. I don’t remember having a conversation with anyone during that time. I can’t say that I saw her or didn’t see her.”

“How about Pepper Markley?”

“The same.”

“How about Alyson Mickels?”

“You should ask some of the male cast members, she’s a real head turner. Alyson was around a lot. She was just part of the usual scenery. I wouldn’t have especially noticed her.

“You know…and this just occurred to me, if someone wanted to get close to Malcolm, that would be the way to do it. For decades he’s been surrounding himself with his ‘special’ assistants. And they all come out of the same mold: young, beautiful, and ambitious. And they are smart, I’ve got to give them credit for that.”

“The tone of your voice, what are you suggesting?”

“Come on, Sheriff, you weren’t born yesterday. His special assistants…how should I put it? Of course, he was sleeping with them. I have been told that Malcolm bragged about a casting couch. It has also been rumored that he joked about a farm system where he developed new talent. You see, Sheriff, it’s about sex, but also a lot more than sex. It’s about dominance and control. He loved travelling around with a beautiful young woman attending to his every need. He liked to show off for his competitors. I don’t know if they were impressed or just thought he was an old fool.”

She paused and refilled their cups again. “This is what I’m thinking, Sheriff. If you wanted to get close to Malcolm, buy one of his assistants. Take Pepper, for instance. She handled his daily schedule, made all his travel and hotel reservations. And, of course, she was in the Murder at the Vicarage. Pepper could provide key information for anyone planning an assassination. And I imagine much the same could be said about Alyson. Two beautiful young women, who already have a track record for making their services available to the highest bidder. For a million dollars, maybe less, I’m sure you could buy their services.”
 

“Do you have anything to support this scenario?” asked Ray.

“No. But, Sheriff, you are such a provincial. I’m just trying to open your eyes to the possibilities. You’re not going to find the killer in the colony. You’re wasting your time.”

“How about Brenda, Mrs. Wudbine,” asked Ray, “why would she tolerate the behavior you are suggesting?”

“Brenda was one of those special assistants back in the day. Now she’s an incurable alcoholic with a very bad heart. The alcohol, that’s how she dealt with it. In recent years she’s been smashed most of the time. They lived separate lives. I imagine Malcolm was just waiting for her to go away. In fact, that thought had crossed my mind. I was wondering who Malcolm would end up with if dear, dear Brenda suddenly exited her worldly existence.”

She looked at Ray. “You see what this conversation has done. It’s brought back all the anger. For years I’ve done my best just to think about the positive parts of Malcolm’s personality. And now you have me blathering on about his heart of coal.”

“So tell me about the positive parts.”

“He has an extraordinary eye for beauty, and not just in women. Look at that house of his. Yes, he hired a gifted architect, but he was a major player in the design. And when you walk through the place, it’s a museum of the best modern furniture of the last 100 years. Every piece is iconic.”

“And the piano?”

“Yes, one of many he’s acquired along the way. If I’m not mistaken, that’s a Bosendorfer. Very contemporary, isn’t it. I imagine it was a custom design.” She paused, then continued, “Like I was saying, positive things. Malcolm was a terrific jazz pianist. He liked to spend time in New Orleans, hanging out in the jazz clubs, getting invited to sit in. His foundation has supported starting jazz programs at traditional Black colleges. See, he did many good things.”

“How about the bass standing next to the piano. Did he play that, also?”

“No, that’s my daughter-in-law’s, the ice princess. You wouldn’t know that watching her play. She dances with that instrument. And she smiles, most uncharacteristic of her. When she and Elliott decided to marry, there was a rumor going around that Malcolm had arranged the whole thing so he would have a bass player available at his beck and call. And she certainly has been more of a devoted assistant to Malcolm than much of a wife to Elliott, not that he probably noticed.”

“I’m not quite following,”

“It’s hard to follow, Sheriff. You are listening to an angry, rambling old woman. Elliott, my dear son. He’s smart, but he’s very weak. There came a time when I could no longer protect him from his father. He, too, was a faithful servant. And I’ve never understood that marriage. Elliott seems to be asexual, an absolute contrast to his father. When he was younger I wondered if he was gay. And his wife…well. Sheriff, I’m tired of talking. Is there anything else?”

“Not for now, thank you.”

“Remember, the killer is not among us. I’d call the FBI. You need some serious help.”

38

S
ue parked her Jeep off the side of the road at the bottom of the drive and walked up the sandy two-track toward the cottage.

Alice Lea greeted her halfway up the drive. “I see you’re dressed in mufti today,” she commented, eyeing Sue’s jeans and light-blue polo shirt.

“Your son gave me an excuse to escape from my uniform for a day. This is a lot more comfortable.”

“Well, you look good in jeans.” Before they reached the cottage, Alice Lea paused and turned toward Sue. “I wanted to chat with you a few minutes before you meet with Thomas. First, I want to thank you and Sheriff Elkins for the way you handled that situation. I know that it could’ve ended quite badly for him.

“I have to take some responsibility for his meltdown. You see, Thomas was off his meds that day. I won’t always be around, so I’ve been working to have him take responsibility for his medication. That morning I didn’t check. This morning I did. There should be no problem. He’s looking forward to talking to you. I’ve got some coffee set up in the kitchen, and I’ve given him permission to smoke. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be in the area. If it looks like Thomas is going to have another meltdown, I can usually intercede and prevent it from happening.”

“That’s fine. I only have a few questions for him. I’m not sure he can answer them. But there is a chance he might have seen something on Saturday night that could help us find Malcolm Wudbine’s murderer.”

Unlike the last time, Tom Lea greeted Sue enthusiastically, shaking her hand and almost reluctantly letting go of it. They settled across the table, Alice pouring coffee and pushing a plate of cookies in Sue’s direction.

Sue pulled her phone from her jeans pocket and pushed against the power button. “I’m turning my phone off, Tom. I don’t want our conversation to be interrupted. I wonder if you could do the same?”

“I don’t have to do that. It’s got this built-in, artificial intelligence algorithm. It knows that when I’m having an important conversation I shouldn’t be interrupted. Fantastic technology. Absolutely cutting-edge.”

“We were interrupted in our last conversation,” Sue chided. Instantly, she thought that was probably not a useful thing to bring up, but it was too late to pull it back.

“Yeah, I remember that. An unfortunate interruption. It won’t happen. I downloaded the newest iteration of the software, 20.6.8. Now it knows when I’m having a significant conversation. No more interruptions.”

“Remember what I was asking you about? You were telling me that you were under the picnic enclosure. From your vantage point you could see the back of the Assembly Hall. You said that you could see someone near the electrical panels.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Tell me about the person you saw. Do you know who they were?”

“No, I didn’t know them.”

“What do you remember? Old or young? Male or female?”

“It was a woman.”

“How could you tell?”

“She was wearing a raincoat. It was long, probably black or dark blue, maybe tan but darker because it was wet. And it had a belt at the waist. It was the shape of a woman. No man has a waist like that. Look at yours. It’s clear that you’re a woman. That’s what I saw.”

“And what did you see this person do?”

“They came up through the woods, not where I was but from the other side. The light on the back of the building was on, but she was staying in the shadows. Then there was a big crash of lightning and the lights flickered on and off and back on. By then,
she was up near the side of the building. There must’ve been a hasp or something holding the doors covering the electrical panels closed, because she struggled with it for a moment. Then I saw her reach in and all the lights went out, and she came in my direction. She didn’t see me. I got down, trying to stay out of sight. I knew what she had done, and I sure as hell didn’t want to get blamed for it. She came under the roof where I was hiding. I’m surprised she didn’t see me. She stopped, lit a cigarette, and then got out of there fast. That’s all I know.”

“Did you notice anything else? Hair color? Tall or short?”

“Tall, maybe. But there was one more thing. The smell. It was the scent of a woman, but not perfume.”

“Shampoo, soap, something like that?”

“No. It was one of those herbal things. Aromatherapy, you know what I’m talking about?”

“Thomas is an authority on this,” offered Alice Lea. “Aren’t you? It sometimes really helps him with some of his moods.”

“Can you tell me anything more? Do you have a name for it?”

“Let me think. It helps with meditation. And it’s very strong. People usually blend it with lots of other oils.”

“Tom, does it have a name?”

“It’s not sandalwood, or Juniper, or bergamot. It’s just on the tip of my tongue. You know how it is when an idea is just floating around in your brain, and you just can’t quite catch it. Maybe if you come back tomorrow, I’ll remember. I’ll keep a pad by me, so if it suddenly comes to me I can write it down.”

Sue sat and looked across the table. She took several slow breaths, holding Tom in her gaze. “This is really important, friend. If you could remember the name, you would really be helping me out.”

He pulled a cigarette from a package and carefully removed the filter, dropping it in the ashtray. He lit a kitchen match with the nail of his thumb, brought it to the cigarette, inhaled slowly, then exhaled, looking toward the ceiling. “Patchouli oil, I think that’s it.” He slowly spelled out the name, “p-a-t-c-h-o-u-l-i.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Absolutely. Scents leave one of the strongest impressions on the brain. That woman was wearing patchouli oil.”

Sue looked at her notepad. Finally, she thought. Finally.

“Aren’t you going to asked me who else was there, under the picnic shelter? There were bundles of new shingles in stacks, and I was hiding between the stacks. I could see them, but they didn’t have a clue that I was there.”

“You took the question right out of my mouth,” said Sue. “Tell me, who else was there?”