The Probability of Murder (23 page)

Of course not. Only in a state of extreme anxiety would I assume that a homicide detective in Henley, Massachusetts, would have a hotline to a park ranger in Franconia Notch, New Hampshire.

I gave Virgil a short version, as calmly as I could, of the storm, the avalanche, and Bruce’s status as missing.

“Sophie, Bruce is—”

I held up my hand. “Please don’t tell me that Bruce is an experienced climber.”

“Okay, I get it. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing that. But who says he’s missing? Is that the term the ranger used?”

“I don’t know for sure. Jenna used it.”

Virgil walked around me and took a seat at the table, forcing me to do the same if I wanted to maintain eye contact.

“So there’s nothing official,” he said, settling his bulk on the chair. “Waiting out a storm is not the same as being missing.”

“It sounds the same to me. The ranger said they couldn’t rescue the guys until things got calmer.”

“
Rescue
is another one of those words. You have to ask yourself, did the ranger use it, or was that Jenna’s interpretation?”

I desperately wanted to adopt Virgil’s perspective. “Okay, you have a good point.”

“Bruce has been ‘rescued’ many times. And he’s been more annoyed each time than the one before.”

“I know.”

“Then you know it just means he needs help getting down, and he hates that. He’d rather slide down a thousand feet with a broken leg, and he’s probably waiting somewhere until the right time to do that.”

“You think he has a broken leg?”

Virgil blew out a loud breath. “Come on, Sophie.”

“Kidding,” I said.

“I’m glad you got your sense of humor back. But, look, if you want to be alone with this right now, I’m out of here. You want me to leave?”

Virgil was kindly giving me the option of wallowing in my distress over my non-missing boyfriend. He looked concerned enough even to leave the pizza behind if that’s what I wanted.

I finally noticed the label on the large carton Virgil had brought in and placed on my kitchen island. The handwritten label read: “PROP, C. CROCKER.”

Besides pizza, he’d brought me a box of Charlotte’s things.

I said, “Of course I don’t want you to leave.”

Virgil promised to review the contents of the box with me as soon as he was a little drier and had a few hundred calories of food and drink in him.

I handed him a towel and he headed first for the bathroom.

I headed for the box.

The top flaps weren’t sealed, but were simply folded over one another. An invitation to dive in, which I did.

I moved the carton to the floor for easier access and dug through the contents. It wasn’t obvious how or why these particular items had landed in this box. I found a mixture of things, some from Charlotte’s office and some from her home. An engagement calendar and a wall calendar, both with a rare book theme. A small bobblehead doll of a librarian, which I was sure she hadn’t bought herself. A velvet pouch with reading glasses on a beaded chain that I’d made for her, with Ariana’s help.

An unsealed envelope contained photographs from the library open house during orientation last summer. I sifted through them, recognizing some students and faculty. I picked out Daryl and several other students from my classes. I saw more than one of Chelsea with a badge that said “Sophomore Volunteer.” I hoped her volunteer activities were in her control.

Charlotte wasn’t in any of the photographs. I never knew until now why she always refused to have her picture taken.

Various size envelopes in the box were sealed shut. I’d do Virgil the courtesy of waiting for him to open them.

Surely this didn’t represent the sum total of Charlotte’s belongings. Where were her clothes? Her huge inventory of shoes and purses? What had happened to her furniture?

I heard footsteps and leaned over to see Virgil coming down the hall, back toward the kitchen. He seemed to have come from the guest room, which was past the bathroom, but I couldn’t be sure.

“You didn’t wait to look in the box. I’m shocked,” Virgil said, his hair slicked back and drier. I’d raised the temperature on the thermostat when Olivia arrived and left it there now.

“What about all the rest of her belongings?” I asked.

“Funny you should mention that. I don’t know how you
feel about this, but it would be nice if you worked with the lady at county who’ll have to take care of that. If they can’t find legitimate heirs, it goes through probate. You might be able to make her job a little easier.”

“I never realized how complicated things could be for a loner.”

“Can I give her your number?” Virgil gave me fifteen seconds to respond, then said, “You can think it over, decide a little later.”

“Who gets her body?”

“Do you want it?” he asked.

I laughed. “Casual question, casual answer. I can’t believe I asked it that way.”

“Natural, nervous reactions,” Virgil said. “I knew what you meant. And what I meant was: Do you want to be involved in the disposition of her remains?”

I didn’t need time to think it over. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t. I guess I was just curious, since there’s no hope of finding a relative.”

“Well, then, to answer your question, first the state has to offer the body of the deceased to a school that might want it.”

“You mean a medical school?”

“Could be. Or it could go to students in dentistry, mortuary science, physical therapy. Most cosmetic surgery teachers want just the heads.”

I cringed. Sometimes it’s best to keep yourself in temporary denial about the realities of life and death.

To accompany this weird conversation, Virgil and I separated pizza slices and put them on plates, two for him, one for me. I knew he was just getting started and that there would be no leftovers tonight.

“I won’t be asking that question again,” I said.

“Be glad someone else deals with all that for us. As for the rest of the process, there’ll be notices in the paper to see if anyone shows up. If no one claims a body within ten days and no school wants it, the state will pay a flat fee to some lucky funeral director for a suitable burial, including a
grave marker, a clergyman, and I forget what else. Massachusetts has more rules than most states. We have stiff requirements.” Virgil shook his head, nearly blushed. “I guess this is my punny day.”

Miraculously, we both maintained our decorum.

I kept my word and watched Virgil down half the pizza and two beers before mentioning his investigation. I stopped after one slice and a ginger ale.

“Can we share now?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t ready to talk,” he said. “We knew we couldn’t keep things close to the vest forever. When I saw President Aldridge pull up in front of your house, I was even more sure that the word was out.” I nodded confirmation. “Tomorrow’s paper will have the news of Charlotte’s past, and everyone will know what we know.”

“What was the big secret?”

Virgil shrugged. “I told you, once we figured out Charlotte Crocker was the woman wanted in several states, we were trying to figure out who her accomplices were. We knew she wasn’t working all by herself.”

“Did you find anyone?”

“That we did.” Virgil looked pleased. “The Jane and John Does on the duffel bag notes? We had the cooperation of the lottery commission, and some cops and FBI geniuses got together and found them. They’re in custody and the world has a few less scam artists. Of course, their lottery scams were small potatoes compared to some big-time cons they pulled off.”

“That was fast work. Was Charlotte working with them or was she their victim or…?”

Virgil gave me another shrug. Whether it was an “I don’t know” shrug or an “I can’t tell you” shrug, I couldn’t tell.

“They were already on to some key players,” he said. “The notes just put the icing on the cake and told them exactly which lottery game each one was linked to.”

“I’m glad I didn’t spend any more time researching Powerball and—I forget the names of the other games.”

“Look at it this way, now you’ll know what everyone is talking about around the water cooler.”

“It’s true that more people I know buy those tickets than I thought.”

“It’s about numbers, Sophie. I’m surprised you don’t play.”

I shook my head. “There’s nothing to calculate. It’s too much like guessing and a lot of luck.” I looked at Virgil and realization struck. “Do you play, Virgil?”

He assumed what Bruce and I called his amused embarrassment expression, like when Bruce asked him how he liked a new woman on the police force.

“Occasionally, if I have a spare dollar,” he said.

“Good luck,” I said.

I decided to take advantage of Virgil’s good pizza-and-beer mood.

“Can you tell me if you’re any closer to knowing who killed Charlotte?”

“I’m glad you’re not my boss. We’re doing our best, trying to narrow the categories.”

“You mean, like criminal cohorts or victims of her scams?”

“Or faculty or students.”

“Of course.” But I was hoping not.

“You’d laugh at the student alibis. There was a party in one of the dorms that night.”

“Nathaniel Hawthorne, the guys’ residence. I heard about it.”

“Well, it seems every kid we interviewed was there. It was like Woodstock, where those who claim to have been there far outnumber the actual attendance.”

“Were you at Woodstock?” I asked.

“On my mother’s knee,” he said.

It was nice to share a light moment.

A loose end came into my mind out of nowhere. “Hannah Stephens told me she thinks she forgot to lock the
library door the night of Charlotte’s murder.” Noting Virgil’s look, I hastened to add, “We were just chatting. I was not investigating.”

“I know you’d never do that.”

“Is that what you figure also? That the killer was able to walk into an unlocked building?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“I knew it would be. You cops are worse than scientists when it comes to actually making a statement without caveats.”

Virgil shrugged, maybe pleased to be compared to a scientist. “Ms. Stephens isn’t completely sure how she left the door. Security goes around and checks buildings routinely, in order, after ten or so. I’m sure you know that. The first check of the library after the students left wasn’t until around eleven, and the building was locked at that time.”

“Meaning the killer could have locked the door behind him.”

“Which is why it’s hard to say.”

Point taken.

I had one more burning question that had nothing to do with who killed Charlotte, but was important for my own peace of mind.

“Do you know for sure that Charlotte was still running scams here in Henley?”

He shook his head. “That we do not. What we have is the word of some lowlifes she partnered with in California who claim she ran off with a ton of their money.”

“At least a bagful.” In spite of the painful image of Charlotte’s tainted duffel, I felt a twinge of hope for my friend. Maybe she’d been trying to turn her life around when she was killed.

“That bag was the tip of the iceberg. There were offshore accounts and stashes of cash everywhere in her wake.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Help me out here, Virgil. I realize you can’t answer with certainty, but I need to know if there’s a chance that
Charlotte had reformed, or gotten rehabilitated, or whatever the word is. Was she trying to get away from bad guys and bad habits, or from the law? She’d served time. Was she free to do whatever she wanted?”

“I know what you’re asking, and why you’re asking. She was your friend. She apparently did a lot for the students at Henley, and maybe that evens things out. I can’t speak to that; I can only speak for the law and procedure.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“It’s a gray area, believe it or not. We’d have to be able to make a direct link between a certain check or withdrawal or pile of bills and Charlotte Crocker.”

“If the bills were marked, from a sting or setup, for example?” I asked.

“That’s a possibility. Doesn’t apply to the particular duffel she gave you, but it could have, yes. She had a bag of unmarked money. Maybe she did odd jobs and people paid her in cash and she was saving up for something.”

I pushed the box with the last slice of the pizza toward Virgil. “No more for me.”

“If you insist.” Virgil took a large bite. “This is what makes it hard for the victims. It’s very difficult to trace back and say, ‘This is what I gave so-and-so, and this is what she promised, and she took my money illegally, and there it is, right there in that bag, or in that offshore account.’ Hard to do.”

I was floored by how complicated it all was. Maybe there was a place for lawyers in this country after all, to sort out this kind of thing. “What about the IRS? Could she have been charged for not reporting the money?”

“We don’t know when she got the money. Maybe she’d accumulated it only since the last tax reporting period. If it’s over a certain amount and she doesn’t declare it, she pays a fine, that’s all. Maybe she’d just counted it and was going to claim it to the IRS the day after she was caught.”

“Or killed.”

Virgil nodded. “Now, that said, does it seem Charlotte Crocker had run off with money of dubious origin? Does it
seem like she was trying to get even farther away with it and not look back? Sure, but if Charlotte had lived and gone to trial, there’s no evidence she’d have been found guilty of anything she hadn’t already served time for, duffel or no duffel.”

It seemed Virgil was working harder than I was to give Charlotte the benefit of the doubt.

We took a break to talk about less heavy things. Virgil had no special plans for Thanksgiving dinner, so he’d probably offer to cover for someone who had family obligations. Nice guy, as I’d always known. I briefed Virgil on Bruce’s cousins in Connecticut, with whom we’d spend the holiday weekend.

I didn’t mind talking about Bruce with Virgil; he’d known him longer than the five years I’d been with him, and he cared about him.

“I’ve seen him get out of more situations than you can dream up,” Virgil said. “No white, fluffy stuff is going to defeat Bruce Granville.”