The Winter Widow (18 page)

“Why do you say that?”

He shot her an irritated look. “Don't play games with me. I want to know who killed her. Whoever it was murdered your husband. You've been investigating his death for over a week. Are you getting anywhere?”

“Did you know Daniel?”

“No,” he said sharply, then took a breath and gave her a diffident smile. “Look,” he said more softly, “I'm sorry, I'm not doing this very well. Let me start again. I don't know anybody here. I've been talking with the Kansas City police, and they said you found her body. I'd just like to hear about it.”

“You don't know Jack Guthman?”

“No.” He started to shake his head and then said with a heavy sigh, “I met him once. What does it matter?”

It probably didn't, but Jack had said they'd met and if Doug thought of lying about that, he'd likely lie about other things. “Jack said you didn't like him. Why not?”

She could see him make a great effort to control his impatience. He shrugged. “I just didn't see why Lucille idolized him.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Tuesday evening. We—” He hesitated, then said flatly, “Argued.”

Now there's an understatement. The argument had probably been a bitter fight, leaving behind regrets for harsh words spoken in heat that could never be apologized for.

“She was obsessed by your husband's murder. It was all she thought about or talked about. Goddamnit, if she'd left it alone, she'd still be alive.”

“What did she know?”

“Know?” Distractedly, he ran a hand through his blond hair, which glinted gold in a shaft of sunlight. “She didn't
know
anything.”

Wrong. Lucille knew something, at least suspected something. Susan was certain of it without having any hard evidence. Maybe Lucille hadn't told Doug, or maybe he was keeping the information to himself. Reporters tended to treat information like a savings account, not to be used indiscriminately but invested only where it would bring a good return. What kind of return was he looking for?

“Why did Lucille go to Kansas City?” she asked.

He took a gulp of coffee, put the cup on the saucer with a clink and pulled a glossy folder from his pocket. She took it from his outstretched hand and glanced at a prospectus for something called Meadow Manor, with artist's sketches of three different homes, lush lawns, a profusion of flowers, swimming pools and stately trees that seemed to sway to seductive breezes. She gave him a questioning look.

“That's why she went to Kansas City,” he said. “To check into that housing development.”

“Why?”

“The development was started by leasing the land. The speculator got enough cash and credit together to print up these brochures, rent a fancy office, hire an architect and get three model homes built. Stage One. Then he sold limited partnerships to finance the construction of homes. Stage Two. So far so good, except he had to use that money to make lease payments and pay the architect in Stage One. Now we move to Stage Three, the golf club and golf course.”

Turning over the brochure, she looked at the artist's rendering of clubhouse and fairways, so lovely she could almost hear the swish, swish of sprinklers. “Why was Lucille interested?”

He ignored the question. “More partnerships were sold on the proposed golf course and that money used to shore up the housing construction in Stage Two.”

“Mr. McClay—”

“This whole house of cards is about to come tumbling down, unless he can figure out a Stage Four to keep Stage Three from going belly-up. The money's gone, credit's gone, construction has stopped and the site looks deserted. The fancy office complex has one little receptionist and lots of closed doors so a potential customer won't see the offices are empty.”

“Mr. McClay, this is all very fascinating, but what does it have to do with Lucille?”

“The speculator is Brenner Niemen.”

“Brenner,” she repeated.

“He needs money, lots of it, and in pretty good time.”

“Maybe you could explain why Lucille was so interested in Brenner's business affairs.”

Doug stared at her. “Lucille believed he killed your husband and she was set on proving it.”

Susan lit a cigarette and stared at him through the smoke. “Why did Lucille believe that?”

He swirled the coffee, tipped up the cup, and drained it. “I don't know,” he said slowly. “It was more a case of deciding the guy was guilty and working hard to find a reason.”

All this stuff about Meadow Manor might make an interesting article on the back page of the newspaper, but he was a journalist; his job was to make interesting stories. She had no idea whether she believed him or not.

He gave her a hard look. “Tell me about Lucille.”

She told him a carefully edited version of finding the body and nothing of the investigation into Daniel's death except that she had leads which she was following.

After he left, dissatisfied with the little he'd learned, she reheated the soup, made some notes and thought about Brenner while she ate.

Lucille, if Doug could be believed, wanted to prove Brenner was guilty of killing Daniel. Didn't make sense. Even if Brenner needed money—and she was inclined to believe that much, at least—how would killing Daniel help?

It was after four when she got back to the police department, and she was sitting at Daniel's desk simply staring at her notes when George came in.

“Did that McClay fellow find you?” he asked.

She nodded and related her conversation with Doug McClay. “What can you tell me about Brenner Niemen?”

“Well now, Brenner.” George pulled on the knees of his dark gray trousers and lowered his rear to the chair. What would she ever do without George? Not only was he doing a lot of her work, but he was a ready source of information on the natives.

“Grew up here,” he said. “Went to school, wasn't a very good student, got into scrapes. His folks owned the dry cleaners, ran it themselves. Brenner had to help out after school and summers.”

“The parents are both dead?”

George nodded. “That was a sad thing. It happened right after Brenner graduated from high school. There was a fire. The place burned down completely and they were both killed. It's been … oh…” He took off his glasses, making his gray-blue eyes seem vague and dreamy, drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and cleaned them. “About sixteen, seventeen years.”

“What caused the fire?”

He put his glasses back on, bringing his eyes into focus, and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Nobody ever did figure that out. There was some thought it was deliberately set, but no kind of proof showed up.”

“There was insurance.” She took cigarettes from her bag, lit one and dropped the pack on her notebook.

“There was, quite a bit. I don't recall the exact amount. Some thought Brenner Senior might have set it, just so he could collect. Mighty careless if so—got both him and Netty killed. Brenner went to live with Sophie then. Didn't stay long, less than a year, then he took off. Was back every now and then for a year, and then he was gone that long stretch.”

“Could he have set the fire?”

“Some thought that, too. Insurance company finally paid off. Money went to Brenner, of course.”

“Did you recognize him when he came back?” she asked.

“Recognize him? He was Brenner come back to visit.”

“You're sure?”

“You got some idea Brenner isn't Brenner?”

“I wondered if that was a possibility.” But even as she said it, she knew it was fancifully unlikely. “Several people have commented they wouldn't have recognized him.”

George smiled. “When they say they wouldn't recognize him, they don't mean exactly that. He left here a boy and came back a man. So there's been those changes, but he's moved a long way from his roots, picked up some glossy polish. Folks think he's gotten uppity.”

The phone rang, startling her, and she picked it up.

Hazel said, “Helen's on the line.”

Susan felt the amorphous guilt she always felt about Daniel's sister. She asked George to have someone check Doug's information on Meadow Manor and find out if Lucille had been digging for it. When he left she said to Hazel, “Put her on.”

“I've been waiting to hear from you,” Helen said.

“Yes, I understand, but—”

“I don't understand why you're stalling.”

Because I can't let you have Daniel's farm until I know you didn't kill him. “I've had a number of things on my mind,” she said dryly.

“I'm sure. I'd like to get this settled before the buyer backs out.”

“Who is the buyer?”

Silence. “Otto Guthman,” Helen said with some reluctance.

“Why? He has plenty of land.”

“My land adjoins his. He's been renting it to raise cattle feed.”

“I see,” Susan said. “I need a little more time. If Guthman's the buyer, it's unlikely he'll back out.”

Reaching to put out the cigarette, she brushed her notebook off the desk and when she bent to retrieve it she saw the listed amounts of Lucille's little stack of canceled checks. “Helen, do you know who might lend Lucille money?”

“What?”

“Who would have lent Lucille five hundred dollars several years ago?”

“What on earth for? Otto has plenty of money. She wouldn't need to borrow.”

But she had. For something she couldn't ask her father for. It probably had nothing to do with anything, just one of those little nagging loose ends that would never get tied up.

“I'm tired of waiting,” Helen said. “I want to sell the place.”

Before Susan could respond, there was a click.

With a grimace and a shrug, she replaced the receiver. Poor frustrated, unhappy Helen. Just when it looked like she had a chance to get what she wanted, there was Susan standing in the way. Soon, Susan thought. If you didn't kill him, the farm is all yours and I hope the money you get from it brings you some joy. Bring you joy. The words set a tune running through her mind. They were a phrase from an old Tom Paxton song.

Hazel stuck her head around the doorway. “Ben called while you were on the phone. He asked me to tell you he went up north to see about Emma Lou. She's not with her family and they don't know where she is.”

So
nobody
has seen Emma Lou for two months. “Where is Parkhurst?”

“I'm not sure. You want me to get hold of him?”

“Not necessary. I want to get a look at Vic Pollock. I just need a couple of uniforms.”

“I can bring in Yancy and Camarco.”

Dropping cigarettes in her bag, Susan rose and retrieved her coat from the rack. “Have them meet me out there.”

*   *   *

HER breath made frosty clouds in the pickup, and even with the heater turned on high she didn't notice any appreciable difference until she'd reached the outskirts of town and was driving past open fields with barbed wire fences. The radio crackled at her and she picked up the mike.

“Traffic snarl-up,” Hazel said through a great deal of interference. “Yancy and Camarco got tied up with—” Static cut in. “I got Ben. He's on the way. He said—” The rest was lost.

The ramshackle house, a small house of weathered shingles, warped and pulling free, with a swaybacked roof, sat far back from the road. Light glowed in one window. A floodlight atop a pole illuminated a yard littered with rotting wood, twisted metal, discarded and broken furniture, all covered with snow.

An overturned bathtub nosed up against the foot of the light pole, and the light picked out piles of bird droppings. Parked at an angle to the sagging porch was a mud-spattered Cadillac, new and shiny black with one crumpled fender. An old battered pickup, paint rusted off, was next to it.

Oh my. Except for the Cadillac, what we had here was straight out of
The Grapes of Wrath.
What kind of fellow was this Vic Pollock?

The floodlight allowed enough brightness to read her watch. Six-thirty. Come on, Parkhurst. I want to see what this guy looks like. The radio caught her attention and she picked up the mike.

“Parkhurst,” he said through a lot of crackle. “Where are you?”

“Pollock's.”

“I've got—” static garbled his words “—and I'm at—enge—s corner.”

Henninger's, she thought, the good Samaritan with the tractor. Not more than five minutes away. Fumbling in her shoulder bag, she found the pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it. She cranked the window down a bit to let out the smoke, and looked over this vision of neglect and decay.

From the house, she heard a bellow of rage. “I'm gonna kill you!” And then a high-pitched cry.

For a moment, she froze. Automatically, she grabbed the .38 from her bag and slid out of the pickup. She tossed her cigarette in a snowbank and raced to the house.

“Kill you, stupid bitch!”

She tromped up the crumbling porch steps and, standing to one side of the door, pounded on it. “Police!”

Inside, a dog set up a clamor and when the barking stopped, she heard thumping around and muttered curses. She banged again.

The porch light went on and the door opened. The man stared stupidly at her .38.

“Police,” she said. “What's going on here?”

He was about forty, a large man with broad shoulders, powerful arms and greasy blue-black hair. He wore filthy khaki pants and a red plaid shirt, unbuttoned; thick black hair covered his chest. “Can't say anything's goin' on. You gonna shoot me for it? With that little bitty gun?”

“Who's here with you?”

He scratched his head, perplexed. “Nobody here but me.”

“Who were you threatening to kill?”

He looked blank, then smiled broadly, and the friendly grin crinkled the skin around his small eyes, but didn't quite reach them. “See what you done, Lulu? Scared this nice lady bout half to death.” He opened the door wider as he spoke over his shoulder and she saw a sandy-haired dog, the size of a labrador, standing a few feet behind him.