Orchid Beach (18 page)
“Chief Marley arrested at six-twenty this morning. The team worked on him for nearly half an hour, and I came in, too, but we weren’t able to revive him. Official time of death was six forty-five. I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, God,” Holly said. “Did he ever regain consciousness at all?”
“I’m afraid not. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, Doctor. Thank you for calling me immediately. I’ll make the announcement through the department, and someone will be in touch with the hospital about the arrangements.” She hung up. Jackson and Ham were standing there, looking at her.
“Is is Chet?” Ham asked.
Holly nodded. “He died at six forty-five this morning.”
“Shit and goddamnit!” Ham spat, stomping his foot. “He deserved better than that.”
“He sure did,” Holly said. The two men sat down, silent. Nobody spoke for a couple of minutes. “I’d better call the station,” Holly said. She called in, dictated a short press release and told the operator to post it on the bulletin board and fax it to the local media. “And post a notice that we’ll have a departmental meeting tomorrow morning, at
the change of shift. I want everybody there.” She called Hurd Wallace and Jane Grey and gave them the news. Jane burst into tears; it took Holly several minutes to calm her down. Wallace said almost nothing.
Jackson took the phone. “I’ll make the arrangements,” he said. “I’m his executor.”
“What are we going to do about burial?” Holly asked. “He didn’t have anybody.”
“He had us,” Jackson said. “He left instructions that he wanted his body cremated as quickly and cheaply as possible, and that he didn’t want a service.” He got the phone book and called a funeral director.
“You want some more coffee, Ham?”
“I’m going to take a walk on the beach,” Ham replied. “Come on, Daisy.” The dog got up and followed him outside.
An hour later they were all back at the table.
“I’ve got some things to tell you,” Jackson said. “The funeral parlor is picking up Chet’s body today. He’ll be cremated tomorrow. Chet wanted his ashes scattered on the river behind his house, and we can do that whenever you like.”
“Is that it?” Ham asked.
“No, there’s more,” Jackson said. “Now that Chet is gone, I can tell you about the terms of his will. It’s pretty simple, really: he had a fifty-thousand-dollar insurance policy, which increased to a hundred thousand in the event of being killed in the line of duty, which he was. He instructed that his debts be paid and that the remaining cash in his accounts, along with the insurance, should be divided
between Hank Doherty and Jane Grey. He left his house and his personal possessions to Hank. Hank, of course, predeceased him, and in that event, Ham, Hank’s share of the estate goes to you.”
“To me?” Ham asked incredulously.
“He didn’t have anybody else, just you and Hank. It’s what he wanted.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Holly said. “That will make your retirement more comfortable.” She turned to Jackson. “What did he have in the way of debt?”
“He had mortgage insurance, which pays off that balance, so the house is free and clear, except for a home improvement loan of about ten thousand dollars. Apart from that, there’s a few thousand in credit card debt and his monthly bills to close out, and that’s it. On the asset side, he had some money in mutual funds—thirty or forty thousand, I think.”
“I don’t believe it,” Ham said.
“Well,” Holly replied, “your housing problem is solved.”
“I don’t see why you can’t move into the house today, Ham,” Jackson said. “It’s very nicely furnished. All you’ll need is some groceries. There’s a small boat, too, tied up at Chet’s dock. And if you decide you don’t want to live in the house, there’s a ready buyer waiting in the wings.”
“It’s a nice place, Ham,” Holly said. “You’ll like it.”
“I expect I will,” Ham said sadly.
H
olly and Jackson led the way, followed by Ham and Daisy in Ham’s truck. She thought the place very pretty in the afternoon light; the property was nicely planted, something she hadn’t noticed in the dark. Everybody got out and walked around the house with Ham. The boat was there, tied to the little dock. It was a seventeen-foot Boston Whaler with a forty-horsepower outboard engine, ideal for skimming up and down the quiet waters of the Indian River. Jackson unlocked the house and they went inside.
“Hey, this is nice,” Ham said. “Chet made himself real comfortable.” He walked over and looked at the guns and the fishing rods in their racks. “Nice gear, too.”
“There’s only one bedroom,” Holly said. “Over there.” She pointed.
Ham walked through the place. “It’s just wonderful,” he said, and his voice cracked.
“Jackson,” Holly said, “why don’t you and I start getting Ham’s stuff off his truck?” They went outside, leaving Ham alone. “I’m so glad Chet did this,” she said. “Ham’s in there crying right now, and I haven’t seen him do that since Mom died.”
“Let’s unload all this stuff from the truck,” Jackson said, “and give him a minute.” He got up onto the pickup, folded back the tarp and started handing Holly boxes. A few minutes later, Ham came out, seemingly recovered, and helped them carry things in. They began emptying boxes.
Holly went to the chest of drawers in the bedroom and started packing Chet’s things into some of the empty boxes. That done, she began helping with the other things. When she came to Ham’s shotgun, she unzipped the sheepskin case and set the weapon in an empty slot in Chet’s gun rack. While doing that, something caught her eye. There were three pistols in the rack: an army .45 automatic, a .38 police special and a smaller revolver. It was the smaller gun that got her attention: there was a trace of talcum powder clinging to it.
She went into the kitchen and came back with a pair of dishwashing gloves and a zippered plastic bag. She put on the gloves and gingerly lifted the revolver off the rack by its trigger guard. It was a Colt .32.
“What have you got there?” Jackson asked.
“Jackson, do you remember this pistol being here last night when we were searching the place?”
“I didn’t pay much attention to the guns,” he said.
“Neither did I, and I searched the rack for a piece of paper tucked away.”
“Why does the pistol interest you?”
“Because I think it belongs to your client, Sammy.”
Jackson looked closely at the weapon. “So when they searched the house, they not only took something, they left something.”
“Looks that way.”
“What a weird thing to do.”
“They hid it in plain sight,” she said. “I guess they figured nobody but Chet would ever know the difference, and that he wasn’t coming home. I only noticed it because it had some talcum powder on it.”
“Maybe it’ll have some fingerprints on it,” Jackson said.
“They haven’t left a print anywhere else; I doubt they’ll start with this.” She handed it to him. “I guess you’d better send it to your client, if you ever hear from him again.”
“You don’t have any further need of it in your investigation?”
“Nope. It’s not material.”
Jackson walked out into the backyard and threw the pistol as far out into the river as he could, then he came back. “That’s the last of that,” he said. “Well, looks like we’ve gotten just about everything unpacked. Ham, you want to go out for some dinner with us?”
“Thanks, Jackson, but I think I’ll pick up some groceries and just be by myself tonight; get used to the place.”
“Okay, Ham,” Holly said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Have a good evening in your new place, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
They got into Jackon’s car and drove away. “I hope he’s going to be okay out here by himself,” she said.
“He looks pretty self-sufficient to me,” Jackson replied.
“Yes, he is that.”
The following morning she sat down in Jane Grey’s office. “Jane, I’ve got some good news for you: Chet had some insurance, and he left half of it to you. It’s fifty thousand dollars.”
Tears welled up in Jane’s eyes, and she seemed unable to speak.
Holly patted her on the shoulder, then went back to her office to collect her thoughts. Ten minutes later she walked into the squad room and yelled for everybody’s attention. The room was packed with officers and clerical workers, and as she began to speak, she saw John Westover walk in.
“I guess you’ve all heard by now that Chief Marley died yesterday,” she said. “I’ve learned that he requested that his body be cremated and his ashes scattered on the river next to his house. That’s being taken care of today. He also had requested that there be no funeral or service, so I guess this meeting will be the closest thing to a memorial service that he’ll have. Anybody have any questions or want to say anything?”
A young officer at the back of the room spoke up. “Did the chief die without ever waking up?”
“He woke up for a short while a couple of weeks ago, then slipped back into the coma. I talked with him briefly, and he wasn’t able to remember anything about the shooting or anything else that would help the investigation.”
A young female officer raised her hand. “I think we ought to have some sort of memorial for the chief around here,” she said.
“Stacy,” Holly replied, “that’s an excellent idea. Why don’t you take charge of that? Ask around and see if anybody has a good idea of what sort of memorial it should be, and then you can take up a collection. I’ll start it with a hun
dred dollars, and the rest of you can give whatever you feel you can manage.”
John Westover spoke up. “I think I can persuade the council to contribute a thousand dollars to such a memorial.”
“Then we’re off to a good start,” Holly said. “Jimmy,” she called to Weathers, “will you go stand guard at the door while you listen? I don’t want anybody coming in here while I’m talking about this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m going to bring you all up to date on our investigation so far, because I think that’s the best way to get every man’s and woman’s maximum contribution to solving these two murders. I don’t want you to discuss any of this with anybody who’s not in this room right now—not your wives, girlfriends, or boyfriends, not anybody. Here’s what I’ve surmised from what we’ve learned: it appears the chief met with someone who was supposed to give him some information on an investigation he was conducting himself. We don’t know what the investigation was about. There was a fight, some blows were exchanged, and the chief was shot. He may have tried to draw his weapon, because one of his murderers—we think there were two—threw his pistol over a fence into the brush, where it was recovered the next day.
“The chief was shot with a thirty-two Smith and Wesson that had been stolen from the house of Lieutenant Wallace’s ex-wife some time before and probably sold on the street, maybe more than once. The murderers then took the chief’s notebook and the shotgun from his car, went to Hank Doherty’s house, somehow got his dog, Daisy, locked in the kitchen, then shot Hank with the shotgun. They searched
the place, then they went to the chief’s house and searched that.
“The murderer was clearly not the man we first arrested for the crime. He owned a thirty-two of a different make.” She turned to Bob Hurst. “Bob, you have anything to add to that?”
“No, chief,” Hurst said. “That about sums it up.”
“Any questions?”
Jimmy Weathers raised his hand. “What were they searching for at the two houses?”
“I think they believed that the chief had made some notes on the investigation he was conducting. They were looking for the notes, and that’s why they took his notebook. Any other questions?”
Nobody spoke.
“All right, now you all know as much as anybody about what’s happened. I want each of you to talk to every snitch, every source, everybody you can think of, and pick up as much information as you can. This is going to be a tough one to crack, and you just might be able to supply us with the break we need to make arrests.
“Chet Marley was a fine police chief. He has left us a well-organized and well-trained department to work with. Let’s use it to find his killers. That’s all.”
The meeting broke up, the shift changed, and John Westover came to Holly’s office, closed the door and sat down.
“Holly, you’re still acting chief for the time being, but we have to go through a formal process in order to replace Chet.”
“I’d imagined you would have to,” Holly said.
“The city charter requires us to advertise the position
for a month and to receive and consider applications from qualified applicants. I expect you want the job.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I imagine Hurd Wallace will apply, too, and I’m sure we’ll have some out-of-town applicants, but you and Hurd, with your experience of the department, are probably going to be the front runners. Chet’s confidence in you will be taken into account, as well. I’ll send down an application form, and I’d like to get it back as soon as you can complete it.”
“Of course, John. There’s something I should tell you. Jackson Oxenhandler, who is Chet’s lawyer and the executor of his estate, told me yesterday about Chet’s will. He left some insurance money to Jane Grey and everything else to Hank Doherty. In the event of Hank’s predeceasing him, which of course happened, Hank’s share was to go to my father, Hamilton Barker, who was in the army with Chet and Hank. My father has just retired from the military, and he arrived in Orchid on Saturday night. He has, at Mr. Oxenhandler’s suggestion, moved into Chet’s house. I wanted you to hear about this from me.”
“Thank you for telling me, Holly. I’ll go see Hurd now and let you get on with your work.”
“I’ll see you later.”
Westover left, and Holly sat, thinking about the hiring process ahead. She knew it had to be done, but she wasn’t looking forward to having it hanging over her head.
Daisy came and put her head in Holly’s lap.
“Good girl,” Holly said. “Nice to have your support.”