4 The Marathon Murders (11 page)

I saw Jill cut her eyes toward me.
Maybe that idea about the house trashing on Blair Boulevard being revenge by
truckers or Teamsters wasn’t so far-fetched after all.
But
why now?

A tribute to Roger
Rottman’s
ability to marry well, our destination lay on a tree-lined street of opulent
mansions in Belle Meade, Nashville’s ritziest suburb. We drove through an
elaborate stone entrance, up a circular driveway, into a large parking area
that fronted a stone mansion resembling something out of nineteenth century
England. My Jeep Grand Cherokee seemed hardly grand between a sleek Lincoln and
a high-powered Mercedes.

“What a beautiful Georgian house,”
Jill said in a hushed voice.

I had only a vague notion of
Georgian architecture. Whatever it was, it certainly looked imposing. Four
large white columns held up what I would have called the front porch roof,
though Jill promptly set me straight on that.

“Look at that impressive pediment.
Its triangular design is repeated in the gables.”

“Thanks for that architectural
enlightenment,” I said.

The retreating sun bore down at a
sharp angle, filtering narrow shafts of light through the trees, as we started
for the entrance, a large white door flanked by narrow glass panels and topped
by an arched window. It rested beneath a wooden balcony that could have been
designed for a latter-day Juliet. Smaller room wings on either side joined the
main part of the house.

I gave a self-conscious tug at my
tie and pressed the button beside the door. Our arrival had been noted, as the
door opened seconds later to reveal a man about my height, though heavier. He
had a jowly face, graying hair, and glasses that enhanced a benign smile.

“Come in,” he said. “I’m Roger
Rottman
. I recognize you. You’re Greg McKenzie.”

My eyebrows lifted. “How did you
know that?”

“When Camilla told me who was
coming, I thought I recalled the name. I looked it up and found you played a
prominent role in tracking down Dr. Elliott Bernstein’s murderer.”

I waved a dismissing hand. “I
wasn’t much help to the poor chairman, I’m afraid, but it sure gave me a load
of publicity.”

He turned to Jill. “I believe you
had a hand in that, too, Mrs. McKenzie.”

She nodded, tight-lipped. It had
been better than four months ago, but she still bore some lingering fallout
from the experience.

I smiled. “Fortunately for us,
there are plenty of other evil-doers around to keep us busy.”

“That’s good . . . or is it?
Anyway, let me show you into the drawing room where the rest of the guests have
gathered.”

He led us past the broad entryway,
where a curving staircase wound upward. Colorful area rugs covered the gleaming
hardwood floor here and there. We entered a large room lighted by a crystal
chandelier. A table bearing an attractive array of finger foods sat near a bar
where a white-jacketed young man dispensed drinks. Several round tables with
chairs had been placed about the room, though no one seemed interested in
sitting at the moment.

Camilla
Rottman
turned as we came in. She broke into a big smile and hurried over, her blonde
tresses just touching bare shoulders that glowed bronze in the light from the
chandelier. She wore a slinky, low-cut black dress that barely contained her
ample bosom. Those pale blue eyes looked sultry. Taking Jill and me by the
hand, she led us over to a group of six people.

“I want you to meet Greg and Jill
McKenzie,” she said with a little more vigor than I thought necessary.

She went around the group,
introducing two married couples and two singles. I recognized the names of a
lawyer and a prominent heart surgeon. The
unmarrieds
were thirty-
ish
, the others not a lot younger than
Jill and I. When the bartender came over to ask what we would like to drink,
the chatter returned to its previous level. The doctor made a comment to Jill,
and she began telling him about our wanderings after retirement, before
settling in Nashville.

Camilla brought my drink with a
gleam in her eye. “I love a man who drinks Scotch.
Shows he’s
made of the right stuff.”

I suspected she had been hitting the
stuff long before our arrival. “I guess it comes from my Scottish heritage,” I
said. “I had a chance to spend a little time in Scotland during my Air Force
career.”

Her smile appeared glued on. “I
believe you were a colonel?”

“Lieutenant
colonel.”

“I’m not too well versed in
military matters, but it sounds impressive. I never had much contact with the
military. My grandfather was a pilot, killed in World War II, so I never knew
him. Roger missed Vietnam, of course. He was in Vanderbilt at the time. My father
served in the Army in World War II, but he never talked much about it.”

“Was he in combat?”

She shook her head, letting the
blonde hair sweep about her shoulders. “He was a finance officer in the Medical
Corps. He’s always been good with dollar signs.”

If he lived anything like his
daughter, he had to be. “I presume your dad’s retired?”

“In name only.
Actually, he serves as chairman of the board of Hedrick Industries. Roger is
president.”

Camilla left to greet the last of
the guests, and I moved over to Jill’s side. She linked her arm in mine.

“Dr. Wallace was just telling me
about his service in the Navy,” she said.

A slim man with long fingers and
strong hands, he seemed like the right type for a surgeon. “I never made it
past lieutenant,” he said with a chuckle. “I just didn’t fit in with the
military psyche.”

I grinned. “A lot of people thought
I didn’t fit in too well, either.”

“Greg had a bad habit of pressing
forward on an investigation,” Jill said, “regardless of whose toes got trampled
in the process.”

The doctor reached over to pat my
shoulder. “Good for you.”

Camilla came back with the last
couple, the head of a large accounting firm and his wife, a woman with a
girlish face and a body that showed obesity was alive and well.

“Now that we’re all here, everybody
help
yourselves to the buffet,” Camilla said. She
began ushering us toward the table.

I followed Jill around, filling my
plate with canapés, Swedish meatballs, shrimp, cheese chunks, and mini kabobs.
We sat at a table with Dr. Wallace and his wife and were soon joined by Camilla
Rottman
, who took the chair next to me. Her husband
sat with another group of guests.

“Frank, I trust you know Greg is a
former Air Force investigator,” Camilla said.

“Oh, yes,” said the doctor. “And he
and his wife now run their own detective agency.”

“Isn’t it exciting?” Camilla turned
to me, eyes fluttering. “Roger said you were an OSI agent. That sounds like
some kind of spy.”

“Sorry,” I said with a laugh. “OSI
is the Office of Special Investigations. I had a few undercover assignments,
but mostly I did gumshoe work. Like pounding the pavement looking for
witnesses. Not much of it was the sort of thing you read about in detective
novels or see on TV.”

She nudged me with her shoulder.
“You’re just being modest. Tell us what goes on behind the scenes in one of
your fascinating murder investigations.”

I caught Jill putting a hand to her
mouth and giving a slight shake of her head. Most of my cases hadn’t been all
that enthralling, though some had their captivating aspects. What the hell, I
thought. If flyboys like Warren Jarvis could wow audiences with their war
stories, why couldn’t I?

“Well, I worked a case down in
Texas one time that involved a bit of intrigue,” I said. “Most homicides these
days are drug related, but this one was a family affair. The agent assigned to
the base had been sent out on another mission, so they flew me down in a T-Bird
to handle it. That’s a T-33, a two-seat jet trainer.”

I didn’t bother to explain how I
kept my eyes closed and sweated the entire flight, which was mercifully short
thanks to the T-Bird’s speed. I didn’t look at Jill, knowing she was inwardly
laughing her head off at my nail-biting plight that day.

“I was taken to the scene as soon
as I arrived. It seems a pilot taking off early that morning had spotted
something odd in a lake next to the golf course, which sat to one side of the
base.”

“Had somebody run his golf cart in
the drink?” asked Dr. Wallace.

“Good guess. The security police
had pulled it out and found a body behind the wheel.”

“The plot thickens,” Camilla said,
eyes glowing.

‘The victim was a young sergeant
from the motor pool. When I questioned his co-workers, I learned he had
recently married, but things were not moving smoothly. They said his wife was off
visiting a friend in San Antonio. She had been notified and was on her way back
to the base.”

“So she obviously wasn’t the
murderer,” Camilla said.

“When you’ve been in this business
a while, you learn not to jump to obvious conclusions,” I said.

Camilla turned to the bartender.
“Phillip, another round for everyone.
Greg has us thirsting
for more.”

Jill and Mrs. Wallace declined, but
the doctor and I accepted. We would let the wives drive home. Camilla grabbed a
fresh one.

“What was the cause of death?” Dr.
Wallace asked.

“The medical examiner ruled it a
severe blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument, probably something
metallic.”

Camilla took a generous sip of her
drink. “So the mechanic did it?”

“Patience,” I said, grinning. “In
questioning acquaintances, I learned the wife had broken up with another airman
not long before she married the sergeant. This guy belonged to the weather
detachment. When I interviewed him, he obviously lied about where he’d been the
night before. Then I discovered his best friend was in charge of maintenance on
the golf carts. We took a wrench from the mechanic’s tool kit, and the medical
examiner matched it to the wound on the sergeant’s head.”

“Forensic pathologists can do some
amazing things,” Dr. Wallace said.

Camilla gave me a questioning look.
“Was it the friend?”

“When I confronted the friend with
the ME’s findings, and threatened to charge him with murder, he confessed.
There were probably dozens of wrenches like his on the base, but he didn’t know
we couldn’t link his specifically to the case. He admitted he had lured the
sergeant to the golf course in the middle of the night and provided the wrench
to the jilted lover. He claimed he had no idea his buddy would deliver such a
sharp blow. Said he was horrified when it happened. ‘I could have killed him
for getting me into this’ was his comment.” I chuckled. “He might have gotten
away with it if he had.”

“Was the wife innocent?” Mrs.
Wallace asked.

“No. The weather guy admitted she
begged him to do something so they could get back together. He sent her off to
San Antonio to avoid suspicion. We charged him with murder and the wife and
friend with being accessories.”

Camilla looked around the table
with the smug air of a queen viewing her court.
“So all was
again right with the world.”

“Would that it
were
so,” Jill said.

I nodded. “The same old problems
keep cropping up again and again. I don’t envy the job of homicide detectives
these days.”

As I looked at Camilla, her mood
shifted suddenly from carefree to
concerned
. She
stood, eyes fixed on the doorway. “Please pardon me,” she said in a flinty
voice I hadn’t heard before. “I have a little motherly business to take care
of.”

She walked quickly toward a stocky
young man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt that
read: “I only came for the beer.”

Our table companions looked around as Camilla
Rottman
strode toward the door, grabbed the young man by
the arm, talked to him a couple of minutes, a stern look on her face, then
steered him into the foyer, out of sight.

“That’s her son, Kirk,” Mrs.
Wallace said. “He doesn’t live here, but I think he’s been a frequent visitor
of late.”

Dr. Wallace changed the subject in
what seemed reluctance to pursue any discussion of his friend’s son. “Do you
play golf, Greg?”

“Sorry,” I said, “but I never found
the time to get into sports. I guess I’m a failure at learning to appreciate
leisure pursuits. Reading is my main hobby.”

“It’s a good one. But I’ve been looking
for a golfing partner with a low handicap, somebody who can help me get some of
my money back from Roger.”

“He must be pretty good.”

“He plays like a pro.”

Mrs. Wallace looked at Jill. “What
do you do for leisure?”

“Just trying to
keep Greg out of trouble keeps me busy.”

That brought a round of laughter,
though I suspected Jill hadn’t meant it all in jest.

“Actually, I have friends at church
I do things with occasionally,” Jill said. “And, of course, I enjoy attending
symphony concerts. Greg sometimes watches the Titans on TV, but I can’t get him
interested in going to a game.”

“Cavorting in a crowd of
fifty-thousand-plus people doesn’t do much for me,” I said.  “I’m not a
crowd person.”

Dr. Wallace pushed his empty glass
aside and leaned on the table. “You’ll have to join us sometime in the friendly
confines of the Hedrick Industries club suite at the stadium. I’m sure Roger
would be happy to have you enjoy a game with us.”

“I appreciate the offer.”

I’d seen pictures of the glassed-in
boxes nestled high in the stadium but had never been inside one. I glanced
about for Roger, finally spotting him near the door. He looked somewhat
deflated as his wife gave him what seemed to be an angry lecture. I turned away
for a moment. When I looked again, I saw Camilla heading our way, the smile
plastered back in place. She stopped beside our table.

“To quote the Bard, ‘All’s well
that ends well.’ Greg, you’re the airplane pro. Come let me show you something
you should find fascinating.”

I cut my eyes toward Jill, who I
knew was fighting to contain herself at that “airplane pro” remark. Camilla
reached for my arm as though to help me up. I suspected it indicated a refusal
to accept “no” as an answer.

She led me over to a large stone
fireplace across the room, where a section of wall displayed framed
photographs. She pointed to one of a man in coveralls standing beside a squat,
single-engine airplane that sat low on the ramp. It had a long, greenhouse type
canopy. The pilot held a leather helmet and goggles.

“That’s my grandfather back in the
thirties,” Camilla said. “He was in the 105th Observation Squadron of the
Tennessee Air National Guard.”

I was sure I had seen an aircraft
like that, probably at the Air Museum in Dayton. “What kind of plane is it?”

“You’ll find it on the picture
caption.”

I looked closer. It read: “Captain
Randall Hedrick with his O-47 at Berry Field, Nashville,
May
30, 1938.”

I had to admit, I found it quite
interesting. “You said he was killed in World War II?”

Camilla linked her arm in mine as she
stared at the photo. “He flew in China with the Flying Tigers, Claire
Chennault’s American Volunteer Group of former Army and Navy pilots. My
grandfather joined the group a few months before Pearl Harbor. The Japanese
shot him down not long after the U.S. entered the war.”

She seemed pretty well versed for a
woman who professed to know little about the military. I had a feeling she knew
a lot more about a lot of things than she cared to admit. I looked around at
some of the other photos. I pointed to a picture of two men with rifles, a
large wild boar at their feet. Menacing tusks curled out of its mouth.
“Somebody likes to hunt. Who are they?”

“The younger one on the left is
Randall. The other one is my great-grandfather, Samuel Hedrick. He was named
after Samuel Adams, the hero of the Revolution who started the Boston Tea
Party. Samuel Hedrick started the company back during World War I.”

The mansion and all the trappings
of wealth began to come into focus. Hedrick Industries had a long, and no doubt
lucrative, history.

“I suspect Randall was in the prime
of life when he was killed,” I said. “Wars are filled with that kind of
tragedy.”

Camilla glanced up at me, then away
with a look I couldn’t fathom. “I’m afraid tragedy has become rather
commonplace in our day. Like that tragic turn of events you told about in your
Texas murder case.”

“True. It’s really a shame when an
innocent guy gets his life taken for no good reason. We’re involved in a case
now where a man was apparently killed because he had something somebody else
wanted. And he really didn’t know the significance of what he had.”

“Is that the case you and your wife
were going to the police about after I was in your office yesterday?”

“You’re pretty sharp,” I said. “You
should have been a detective.”

She turned until I felt her breast
nuzzle against my arm. “I’ll bet you could teach me how to be one.”

Camilla ranked as an attractive,
well-endowed woman, but she was beginning to meddle in my comfort zone. I had an
attractive, shapely wife with whom I had been quite happy for nearly forty
years, and I was not about to get involved with a rich woman who believed she
could buy anything she wanted. I slipped my arm away from Camilla’s and nudged
her in the direction of our table. “I think we’d better rescue the doctor and
his wife. Jill is the real pilot in the family. She’s probably boring them to
death with her tales about flying.”

I lied. Jill would never mention
her exploits as a commercial pilot unless somebody brought it up. I found it a
good excuse, however, to steer our tipsy hostess back to a safe harbor.

Dr. Wallace pushed his chair away
from the table as we walked up. “The camaraderie has been great, and we’ve
really enjoyed the party, Camilla. But I need to get home and take care of some
things before bedtime.”

“Don’t wake me up when you leave in
the morning,” his wife said. She added for our benefit, “Frank has an obscenely
early tee time. I prefer sleeping late on Saturdays.”

Camilla looked downcast. “Surely
you don’t have to leave us so early.”

He stood and pushed his chair under
the table. “I’m afraid so. Greg, Jill, it was certainly a pleasure meeting
you.”

Jill and I stood for the farewell
formalities, after which I turned to Camilla. “This is a good time for us to
bow out as well. We have some commitments tomorrow, including a funeral up in
Trousdale County.”

“Not a relative, I hope.”

“Actually, we never met the man,”
Jill said. “But he was involved in a case we’re investigating.”

Camilla gave us one of her most
congenial smiles. “I hope you’ll come back soon when you can spend more time.
It’s been a delight meeting you and getting to know you better.” The last part
was accompanied by a glance toward me.

We stopped to thank our host, who
appeared to have imbibed somewhat less than his wife. As we started out the
door, Jill whispered in my ear.

“While the doctor was gone to the
bathroom, his wife gave me the scoop on Roger and Camilla’s wayward son.”