A Killer Retreat (23 page)

He didn't have to worry. I'd learned my lesson.

Dale opened the door. “Hey there, Emmy.” He ushered her inside. “Thanks for coming by. Miss Kate and I here need to talk to you.”

I started, surprised. I'd forgotten all about Dale's affected southern twang.

Emmy greeted him with a hug. “I got here as soon as I could, and I didn't tell anyone where I was going, just like you asked.” She grinned mischievously. “I feel like a female Double-O-Seven. But why all the secrecy? Did you figure out who killed Monica?”

Dale pointed to a chair. “Maybe you should sit down for this.”

Emmy's secretive smiled morphed into a cautious frown. “What's
going on? You're starting to scare me.”

“Please have a seat.”

Emmy sat, but she leaned forward as if she might bolt in an instant.

Dale knelt in front of her and spoke in a soft voice, like a loving uncle comforting a frightened child. “I'm sorry, sweetie. This is going to be hard to hear. We think your daddy killed Monica, and that he might be planning to hurt your momma.”

Emmy's cautious worry turned into horrified disbelief—with a touch of anger thrown in for good measure. “You're crazy, Dale.” She stood up. “You're
both
crazy. I'm not going to sit here and listen to you slander my father.”

Dale grabbed her arm. “Hear me out, Emmy. You don't have to believe us, but at least listen to what we have to say.”

Dale described Rene's and my visit with Bruce, though he conveniently left out how most of the evidence pointed right back at me. At first Emmy simply stared at Dale, her face frozen in disbelief. By the time he finished, her body was rigid; her eyes wide; her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Like the doe Bella and I had encountered in the upper field, Emmy desperately wanted to believe that she was among friends, but every instinct primed her to bolt.

Instinct won.

“I need to go talk to Dad.” She raced for the door.

Bruce blocked her way. “I can't let you do that, hon. You know
I like you. Heck, I wouldn't let just anybody foster Billy and Thunder.” I assumed those were two of the center's Nubian goats. “I figured I ought to tell you first, so you could be prepared. But I can't let you talk to your daddy, at least not until after Bill questions him.”

“Dale, this is crazy. Dad would never hurt anyone—especially not Mom! I don't know how that medicine ended up in his cabin, but he didn't steal it. Why would he? Even if he
wanted
to kill Mom, missing a dose or two of her heart medicine wouldn't hurt her. He even picked up the replacement prescription for her. There has to be another explanation.”

The concern on Dale's face didn't look feigned. “Then this is even more urgent than I thought. For all we know, he tampered with that new medicine. I'm sorry, hon, but we already called Bill. It's only a matter of time before the judge issues a search warrant. Your father will be arrested by nightfall.”

Emmy grabbed Dale's arm. “Dale, please. We can't let that happen. Dad's close to a nervous breakdown as it is. Getting arrested might push him right over the edge. You're a defense lawyer for God's sake! Can't you do something?”

Dale stepped back, scratched his head, and pretended to look conflicted. “I'd like to, hon, but I represent Kate here. Talking to your father would be a conflict of interest. I'm only telling you this now because Kate said I could.”

That was my cue. I mentally crossed my fingers and hoped Emmy would take the bait. “Dale, maybe Emmy's right. Maybe we
should
give Bruce a chance to explain.”

“Please, Dale,” Emmy begged. “Let's go talk to Dad. I'm sure he can clear this up.”

Dale pursed his lips, pretending to think. After a few silent seconds, he picked up his coat. “All right, ladies. You win. Let's go see what Emmy's daddy has to say for himself.”

twenty-two

Emmy chattered nervously all
the wa
y to Bruce's cabin. “You'll see. My dad's a sweet man. He'd never do anything to hurt Mom. I mean, he cheated on her, sure, but he'd never
physically
hurt her.” Was she trying to convince Dale, me, or herself ? “This is all a big mistake. I'll bet those pill bottles were empty. Maybe they're old. May
be
…
”

I tuned her out and continued trudging, step by heavy step.

The ends sometimes justified the means, right? Then why did I feel so guilty? I barely knew Emmy, but my conscience still scolded on hyperdrive—and for good reason. Emmy was sweet. She was trusting. Some might even say naive. And we had lied to her.

Dale hadn't called Sergeant Bill, or anyone else at the police de
part
ment, for that matter. Before we involved the police, we needed
to extricate me from the evidence. As it stood now, even if Sergeant Bill found the prescriptions—assuming that Bruce hadn't already tossed them in the ocean—a jury would be more likely to believe that I had
planted
those bottles in the cabin than found them there.

So Dale came up with a plan: trap Bruce by confronting him with his guilt and his daughter's face at the same time. It was brilliant, of course, but that didn't make it any more palatable.

No tell-tale barks or bouncing fur balls answered Emmy's knock. Just Bruce, who wore a glazed expression and held an almost-empty martini glass. His eyes hovered a few inches in front of our faces, without recognition. Then they locked on Emmy.

“What are you doing here, hon?”

“Dad, are you drinking?”

“Don't worry, Emmy m'dear,” Bruce held up the glass in a mock toast. “I'm simply having a couple of Manhattans in Monica's honor.” His laugh held no humor. “You know how Monica loved my Manhattans.”

Emmy's eyes filled with tears. “Oh Dad, you stopped drinking
years
ago. You promised.” She looked at Dale. “Maybe we should come back a little later when Dad's feeling better.”

No lilting accent softened Dale's reply. “I'm sorry, Emmy. It has to be now.”

Emmy blanched.

“Mr. Crowe, My name is Dale Evans. I'm a friend of Emmy's. I'm helping investigate your wife's murder. May we come in?”

Bruce hesitated. “I'm not in the mood for company right now.”

Dale frowned. “I understand.” He addressed Emmy with a tone of determined resignation. “Well, we tried.”

He placed his palm on my shoulder and guided me toward the stairs. “Kate, come with me. You shouldn't be here when the police arrive.”

Emmy visibly panicked. “Dale, wait!” She grabbed Bruce's arm and pleaded with him. “Dad, please. Let them in. They're here to help you. They're my friends.”

The word “friend” stabbed like a knife thrust deep into my heart. Emmy trusted me. She believed I wanted to help her father. When she figured out Dale's and my real plan, she might never forgive me.

I almost hoped Bruce would turn us away.

Almost.

Bruce paused for a moment, then acquiesced. “Fine, then. Come in.” He staggered away from the door and gestured toward the living room.

I glanced around the empty space. “Where's Bandit?”

“I locked the little vermin in the car.” Bruce drained the last drops of amber liquid from his glass. “Never did like that damned mutt, but at least now I don't have to listen to that incessant barking.” He paused, then tilted his empty glass toward the light and looked at it quizzically. “How 'bout that? Looks like I need a refill.”

Emmy took the glass from his hand and slammed it onto the end table. “You've had quite enough.” She led Bruce to the couch and sat beside him. “Pay attention, Dad. You're in trouble. You have to talk to these people. You have to explain that you'd never hurt Mom.”

Bruce blinked several times, as if trying to focus. He sat up a little taller. “What are you talking about? Of course I wouldn't hurt your mother.” He pointed at Dale, who was still standing. “Who are you again?”

“Who I am doesn't matter, sir. All you need to know is that I'm involved in this case. Ms. Davidson contacted me because she believes your ex-wife may be in danger.”

Bruce looked confused. “Helen? In danger? What do you mean?”

“Dad, it has to be some sort of misunderstanding. Kate saw some of Mom's medicine here in the cabin, and she thinks you stole it. I told her there had to be a simple explanation.”

I watched Bruce intently, looking for a sign. Some move, some tell that indicated we'd caught him. His body remained stock-still, but his eyes darted back and forth, as if searching for a plausible answer. I could almost hear the sluggish, rusted-out wheels of his brain begin turning.

“Medicine? What medicine?”

Emmy's reply was soft, halting. “Mom's heart medicine. Her digoxin.”

Bruce's Adam's apple jumped in his throat. He glanced toward the bathroom.

Gotcha.

“Yes, Bruce, I found the bottles you buried in the trash.”

Bruce was caught, and he knew it. His eyes closed; his brow furrowed; his fists clenched. He even stopped breathing.

Emmy saw it, too. Her expression morphed from frustrated, to concerned, to confused, to horrified. “Oh my God. You
did
steal Mom's heart medicine. Why would you want to hurt Mom?”

Bruce leaned toward her beseechingly. “Emmy—you have to know that I'd never hurt your mother. Never. She always has plenty of that medication. And if she didn't, missing a dose or two wouldn't have hurt her anyway.”

“Maybe not,” Dale replied. “But you picked up her replacement prescription.” He towered over Bruce. “What kind of poison did you put in that medicine?”

Bruce visibly started. “What? Nothing! What are you talking about?”

Dale spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I hear killing gets easier after the first time. I'll bet planning Helen's death was a breeze. After all, you'd already murdered Monica.”

“Murdered Monica? No way! I didn't put nearly enough digoxin in that Manhattan to—”

A strangled sound came out of Emmy's throat.

Bruce's complexion turned corpse gray.

Dale continued pressing. “I don't understand, though. Why strangle the poor woman when you'd already poisoned her? You couldn't wait a few more hours for her to die?”

Bruce's eyes darted frantically back and forth, searching for an ally. He alternated between trying to convince Dale that he was innocent and begging Emmy for understanding. “No. It wasn't like that. I didn't kill Monica. I just made her sick.” He reached for Emmy's hand, but she snatched it out of his grasp. “Honey, I did it for you.”

She stumbled away. “For me? How can you say any of this was for me?”

“I only wanted to get Monica out of the way for a couple of days. Maybe get her to go back home. I wanted her to leave you alone.” Bruce buried his face in his palms. “It was stupid, I know. But she kept pushing and pushing. I couldn't let her hurt you anymore. I needed a break. We all did.”

“But Dad, she thought I'd given her food poisoning. She could have destroyed the resort's reputation. You didn't think
that
would hurt me?”

“I'm a doctor, for God's sake. I thought she'd believe me when I told her it was the flu.”

Bruce stood up and lurched toward Emmy.

“Please, Emmy, you have to understand. It was all for you. I loved Monica, but I love you more.” He reached for her, but she jerked away, as if scalded by even the possibility of his touch.

Bruce gaped at her for several seconds, then sank to the floor and cradled his head in his arms. “Oh my God, what have I done?”

Dale pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

“Bill? Dale Evans here. I need you to send a couple of officers out to Elysian Springs. And you might want to head on over here yourself.”

_____

While Dale and Bruce waited for the police to arrive, I called Michael to let him know it was safe to come back to Elysian Springs. Now, almost an hour later, Rene, Sam, Michael, and I all stood together and silently watched the drama come to a close.

The police cars' sirens seemed to have summoned everyone on the property. Strangers from all areas of the resort—employees and guests alike—gathered around us, whispering and shuffling, waiting for Bruce's arrest.

A woman I recognized from the restaurant pointed at me and whispered, “She was in on it. Why isn't she in jail?”

“That was a ruse,” her friend replied. “The maid told me she's an undercover police detective.”

A student from my yoga class that morning smirked and said, “You're both crazy. She's just the yoga teacher, and she's not even very good at that.”

Oh, how I wished it were true. That I were “just the yoga teacher.” I'd even settle for being the not very good one, as long as I could be as clueless as the people milling around me. I'd rather be anything. Anything but a core player in this Greek-like tragedy.

Emmy sobbed silently into Josh's arms as the rest of her family milled around them, separate from the rest of us bystanders, yet huddled together for support. I absurdly wanted to join them. I wanted to draw from the group's comforting energy, or better yet, grab Bella and hide behind the bed. But I couldn't do either. All I could do was stand there with the rest of the strangers, focused on the cabin's front door, waiting for Bruce to emerge.

My ears rang. My head pounded. My retinas burned, even in the cool, early evening twilight. I tried closing my eyes and pretending to disappear, but the rude strangers' voices kept yammering. Why wouldn't they stop talking?

The door finally opened. Emmy's sobs grew louder as a deputy led Bruce—now handcuffed—to a patrol car. The deputy placed his hand on top of Bruce's head and eased him into the back seat. Helen whispered something to Emmy, gave her and Josh each a hug, and strode purposefully toward me.

I wasn't sure what to expect, but a “get off this property, you conniving bitch” wasn't out of the question. She stopped a few feet away then paused, frowning, before ultimately deciding to close the gap.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“For what?”

“I was awful to you this morning. But in spite of that, Emmy says you tried to protect me.”

I didn't know how to reply, so I remained silent. I didn't deserve Helen's gratitude any more than I had Emmy's trust. I never thought Bruce was planning to hurt Helen; that little untruth was simply part of the deception. The only person I had protected today was myself.

“For the record,” she continued, “I was never in any danger. Bruce
did
steal the prescriptions, but not to hurt me. His heart was in the right place. How can I blame him for wanting to protect Emmy?”

“Even by murder?”

She absently rubbed her left ring finger. “I was married to Bruce for twenty-five years. The man I lived with wasn't capable of murder. He must have snapped.” She looked at the ground. “Honestly, I feel partially responsible.”

“Why?”

“I could see that woman was torturing him—that he was falling apart—but I did nothing to stop it. I even egged her on. Part of me enjoyed watching the show. I was still so angry …” She shook her head. “None of us are innocent in this situation.”

The patrol car's engine started. “I'm sorry, but I have to go. I contacted a lawyer, but she won't get to the island for hours. Bruce shouldn't have to face this alone.”

Helen said a quick goodbye to Toni. They didn't seem to be fighting anymore, but there was still a distance, even a sadness, between them. They said a few words, then embraced before Helen climbed into her car, alone.

The two-car caravan drove off, police lights dissipating into the pink and purple twilight. I couldn't read Toni's expression, but I wouldn't have been surprised if she were upset. If Michael ditched me to chase after a murdering ex-wife, I certainly wouldn't be happy. But from my guilt-ridden spot on the sidelines, I felt relieved. At least Bruce still had someone on his side.

Michael took my hand. “Not exactly Hollywood's version of riding off into the sunset, is it?”

“No, not exactly.”

“At least now we can finally put this behind us.” He squeezed my fingers. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He was right, of course, so why couldn't I agree?

I was spared answering when Sergeant Bill and Dale emerged from the cabin. Sergeant Bill carried evidence bags filled with the now-infamous prescriptions; Dale carried a dog bed—for Bandit, I assumed. Our eyes met. Dale gave me a smile and a soft nod. Both men walked toward us.

I kissed Michael on the cheek. “We'll talk later, OK?”

By the time Dale reached us, he wore a huge grin. “You done good, kid. Your daddy would have been proud.” He winked, redneck facade firmly in place. “Bill here has something to say to you, don't you Bill?”

Sergeant Bill planted his feet wide. “You may have to come back and testify at some point, but for now you're free to go. You are officially no longer a suspect in Monica Crowe's murder.”

“Bruce confessed?”

“Yes—at least to dosing Monica with the digoxin. As for the rest, he still doesn't admit to it, but it was him.”

“Why would he admit to poisoning her, but not strangling her?”

Sergeant Bill sighed. “Let it go, Miss Davidson. Murderers aren't
known for their good common sense. Personally, I think he's setting up an insanity plea.”

“Could be,” Dale replied. He patted me on the shoulder. “In any case, it doesn't matter. It's not your problem anymore.”

I bit my lower lip and stared at the cabin, almost expecting Bruce
to reappear. “I still can't believe he did it. I honestly didn't think he was capable of murder. If anything, he seemed self-destructive.”