The Killing Edge (3 page)

Things had been done. The house was sold, a new mortgage placed on the service station and showroom, and then work. Years of sixteen hour days when she sold cars, did the office chores, and learned to work in the shop. The ceaseless activity had pushed back the waves of despondency and she had survived.

“Eight cents for your thoughts.”

Their eyes met. “I was just thinking about the day you came into the house on Forum street and made me get dressed. You recall?”

“I remember.”

The skate blade cut into the flesh of her neck and she felt a seeping warmth spread over her body. Waves of concentric red rings swam toward her, followed by an onrushing curtain of black. The pressure was released. She tried to turn over and crawl only to fall back with a short gasp.

A waitress in checkered apron snapped on their lobster bibs, and Luigi appeared with a flourish to present a dusty wine bottle. Will nodded and the cork was deftly popped.

“Luigi does this knowing full well that a dumb country cop doesn't know good wine from bad.”

“It's delicious,” L.C. said taking the first sip. “Now crack your claws.”

After dinner they had The Pier's special brand of Irish coffee which was heavily laced with whisky. She suspected that in their honor it had been given a double portion of whisky. She was beginning to feel a glow, and thought that Will was also. Like a married couple attuned after a decade of shared experience, they could communicate without speech.

The waitress and Luigi frowned as the patrolman, his slicker dribbling melted snow across the carpet, pushed through the restaurant.

“Will he go away if I pretend to not see him?” Will asked.

“Heap big accident on Route 97,” L.C. said and gave a short laugh.

Will turned with irritation as the patrolman reached the table. “What gives, Dave? And it had better be important.”

“There's trouble over at the Bridger place.”

“What kind of trouble?”

The officer looked past Will toward the other diners and then bent over conspiratorially. “Someone's hurt. You had better come.”

Will plunked his napkin on the table. “You about done, or should I send someone back for you with a car?”

L.C. stood. “No. I'll go over with you and then you can take me home.”

“Probably won't take long,” Will said as he paid the bill and thanked Luigi. “Although we did have some housebreakings in that area last summer.”

The rate of snowfall had increased, and a stiff breeze from across the water had shifted weather conditions to near blizzard proportions. Will followed the other police cruiser out of the parking lot as they turned off Forum Street toward the fashionable homes in the town's point section. The homes on the point had the double advantage of private beach facilities on the Sound and a protected estuary large enough to moor private boats. The most affluent of Lantern City's 10,000 persons lived on the point.

“It wouldn't take me a minute to drop you home.”

“Don't bother. You know how they push the panic button for unleashed dogs. We can have a drink at my place when you're finished.”

“That's the best offer I've had all day.”

Will turned into the Bridger driveway and flicked off the ignition with his bumper almost touching Raleigh Bridger's Oldsmobile. He was out of the car and halfway to the front door when it was opened by another patrolman who beckoned frantically to him.

After five minutes of waiting, L.C. felt the chill seeping through the car and reached for the ignition. He'd automatically taken the keys with him. She left the car and walked briskly toward the house as snow, blown by the sea wind, eddied around her.

She opened the unlocked front door and pushed it shut behind her. The house, a typical colonial design, had a wide front hall with archways on either side to the dining and living rooms. She could hear Will's low voice from the living room as she stepped around the corner.

Mauve Bridger lay dead in the center of the room. One hand was outstretched toward a red splattered ice skate, while her head lay in a pool of blood.

“Oh, my God.”

Will turned and snapped, “Get back in the car!”

“Where's Raleigh?”

“Upstairs, ill. Now get the hell back in the car!”

Chapter Two

She stumbled from the house and through the snow.

The macabre tableau in the living room was fixed in her mind, as vividly as if she were still there: Will, on one knee next to the body, the other officers against the wall as if attempting to retreat as far as possible from the obscene thing in the center of the room. The ice skate, splotched in red, its use all too apparent, lay beyond the outstretched hand.

Her leg began to hurt as she ran heedlessly down the street until flashing lights from behind her were reflected against the snow shrouded trees to her side. She ran toward the sidewalk as the snowplow, its steel blade scraping the first layer of snow from the street, picked up speed and passed. She found herself gasping for breath, and turned to walk back toward the car parked in the drive.

Snow blew against her face and she bent her head low to avoid its impact. She stopped as a large form appeared immediately ahead.

“Is that you, L.C.?”

She looked up at the familiar face. “Herb … Herb Strickland.” She almost fell into his arms.

“I saw you out my window running from the Bridger house. What's going on over there?”

“Oh, Herb, it's horrible.”

He firmly grasped her elbow and led her toward his house which was next door to the Bridgers'. In a near somnambulant state she allowed herself to be directed through the house into the living room, and felt her jacket slipped from her arms. She sank onto the couch as he put a drink in her hand.

“Mauve Bridger's been killed,” she was finally able to say.

“Mauve … killed …” His face was stricken, and the silver ice tongs clattered to the floor. “What happened?”

“I don't know. She's dead, in the living room.”

“Young hoods, that's what it is. I'll tell you, L.C., I'm not surprised after all the trouble we've been having out here on the point. Can you imagine, last summer they stole Dad's boat … a forty foot cruiser, and it took us two weeks to get it back.”

“It's hard to imagine,” she replied, trying to equate in some manner the theft of a luxury boat with the death of the woman next door.

He was a heavy man with a paunchy, soft physique and thick glasses that gave him a myopic appearance. His shoulders were hunched into a stooped position as if he were constantly reaching for some object slightly out of his grasp. She had known Herbert Strickland in a casual manner for years. He had been cashier of the Lantern City Savings Bank for years, and now on the death of his father, the bank president. She had almost monthly business contacts with him.

“Where's Raleigh?” he asked.

“In the house. I don't know any of the details.”

“You don't suppose …?”

“Suppose what?”

“It's a terrible thing to say at a time like this, but it's rather common knowledge that Raleigh and Mauve haven't been getting on. There're faint rumors of divorce.”

“It wasn't common knowledge to me, but then I don't hear much gossip hiding under a grease rack.”

Herb laughed. “You run the most successful agency in the shore area, L.C. I doubt that you spend all your time under a grease rack.”

“Sometimes not nearly enough,” she replied quietly.

He slammed his glass on the coffee table and sloshed liquor over his fingers. “This is the last straw! Toby and I have talked about selling this place and moving, and this settles it. With Dad gone, we don't need the waterfront. As soon as I get his boat back from Florida, I'm selling it and this house. We'll move to the country.”

“I can understand,” she said and wondered when Will might be through and how she was going to get home. It might be a while unless Herb offered to drive her. The murder of Mauve Bridger was the first killing in town since the shooting of her father and Frank. Will was going to be very busy.

Will Barnes stood and stepped back from the body. It was difficult to imagine that the desecrated corpse on the floor was Mauve Bridger. He had seen her recently, only a few days ago, when he'd gone out to the Yacht Club to investigate some minor pilferage. She'd been out on the paddle tennis court wearing tight slacks and a floppy sweat shirt. He'd stopped for a moment to watch her play and she had waved.

Now she was dead in her own living room with a skate inches from her slightly curled fingers. “Has anyone seen the other skate?”

“Behind the couch.”

“Why in hell a skate?” he asked aloud. He forced his eyes away from the compelling magnetism of the body to view the remainder of the room. It was a large room running the length of the house, well-furnished with an early American nautical motif. Several excellent prints of clipper ships were along the walls, with a detailed ship model under full sail on the mantle.

He turned to the two officers standing rigidly along the wall. “Take a look through the house and see if you can find what she might have been wearing, but for God's sake don't touch anything.”

“Maybe she wasn't wearing nothing,” Dave August said with a smirk.

Will glared at him. The two patrolmen left the living room and began to roam through the house. “Dave,” he called.

“Yes, sir?”

“Give a call to headquarters. Tell them to get the medical examiner and the state police lab people down here fast. Not that one!” he yelled as the officer stepped toward the living room phone. “There might be prints. Use the car radio.”

Will shook his head as the patrolman ran from the house and toward the cruisers in the drive. Jesus! What a night it was going to be. He looked back at the naked corpse and possibilities clicked through his mind: sex crime, check on known offenders, inventory the house for possible robbery. The skate again … why such a cumbersome weapon when there were probably a dozen honed knives in the kitchen? It also seemed unlikely that Mauve was the sort of person to wander through the house without any clothes on, unless she'd been surprised while dressing … so many questions.

Dave August appeared back in the archway and slapped his jacket to knock off the thin layer of snow. “All set, though they said it might be half an hour because of the weather.”

“That figures. Dave, I want you to stay here while I go upstairs. No one comes through, understand?”

He walked slowly up the stairs. He realized it had been a mistake to let the husband come up alone before they'd had a chance to search the house. Mistake number one. He hoped there wouldn't be many more.

Raleigh Bridger was sitting on the edge of a kingsize double bed in the master bedroom. He was bent over with his head in his hands.

Will stood in the doorway a moment observing the grief-stricken man. He judged Raleigh to be about thirty-eight; he had a tall, slim build. He still possessed a boyish look that many women found attractive. His face was long and narrow with a shock of brown hair that hung over his forehead. The town had taken to Raleigh readily upon his arrival five years ago. A vice president of the Lantern City Savings Bank, he was considered by many to be a progressive business leader, and had just completed a term as president of the Chamber of Commerce.

Raleigh looked up. “God, Will. Do you have any idea of what could have happened?”

“We don't know anything yet, but the lab and medical people are on their way. You feel well enough to tell me what you saw and heard?”

“I found her like that.”

“You might have seen something that would help. Tell me about your activities tonight.”

“You mean when I got home?”

“Yes, and where were you coming from?”

“Coming from?”

“Where had you been, Raleigh? I assume you weren't here when it happened.”

“No, of course not. Well, I'd been working late at the bank. My secretary was typing a rather lengthy loan proposal. I think she left before I did.”

“Did she or didn't she, Raleigh?” Will sat in a small rocker in the corner of the room and hunched forward with his hands on his knees. The man on the bed was obviously quite agitated, but these first few minutes of the initial interview were critical—he must move slowly.

“I had been working with Sandra, but she left and I went over some odds and ends. The streets were slick and I drove home slowly. The lights were on in the house when I parked and I didn't notice anything unusual.”

“I see.” Will noticed that the bed where Raleigh sat was made, and a glance around the room didn't reveal any stray clothing. He could see through the open bathroom door that there wasn't anything on the floor in there either. He decided to make a quick check of the other upstairs rooms before they continued. “I'll be back in a couple of minutes, Raleigh, and I want you to think carefully and tell me in minute detail everything you saw when you came in the house.”

“I'll try. Jesus, what a mess.”

Will made a quick tour of the other rooms. The first, across the hall from the master bedroom, was tidy and showed no recent signs of occupancy—possibly a guest room. Another room had been converted into a sitting room-office. Letters, books and receipts on a small desk were mostly in Mauve's name. The fourth room was obviously used and contained a man's clothing and toilet articles. It might or might not mean something that the Bridgers occupied separate bedrooms. Nowhere in the upstairs was there a suggestion of what the murdered woman might have been wearing before she was stripped.

Raleigh still sat immobile on the edge of the bed. “I want to get out of here. I want to leave this house.”

“It'll only be a few minutes. Now, you came home from working at the bank, working late. You parked your car and approached the front door. Was it locked?”