Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder (16 page)

Three Boy Scouts, standing a
half block down from the courthouse, brandished semaphore flags. An Eagle Scout in charge of the demonstration faced the other two scouts. Rosswell approached the black-haired leader and told him, “I want to show you two positions. You tell me if they’re semaphore signals.”

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s see them.”

Rosswell stood erect with both arms pointing downwards at a 45 degree angle, the same as the male corpse. “What’s that?” Sweat ran from his armpits down his torso, tickling him.

“The letter Y.”

“Great,” Rosswell said. “What’s this?” He pointed his left arm upwards at a 180 degree angle, his right downwards at a 180 degree angle, the same as the female corpse.

“That’s an E.”

“Thank you very much,” Rosswell said to the boy before he motioned Ollie to head out. “Ollie, that tells me something.”

“The letters E and Y. What does that tell you?”

They skedaddled back to Rosswell’s office where they reviewed the pictures of the bodies on Rosswell’s camera. “Check that out,” Rosswell said, indicating a photo with both corpses visible. “I’ll be right back.”

The fountain in the hallway gave him a cold pint or so of thirst quenching water before he returned to his office. Heat exhaustion wasn’t on his agenda. Cold water would dampen the possibility.

Ollie said, “The bodies are giving semaphore signals.”

“Exactly. Y and E. Or, if we look at it the other way, E and Y. All we have to do is figure it out.”

“If it means anything.”

Rosswell considered giving Ollie one of his own squeaks. Instead, he said, “Of course it means something. There’s nothing accidental about the way the corpses were arranged. Bodies don’t just fall into the positions that I found those two.”

“I’ll assume that. Tell me what it means.”

Rosswell chewed on the inside of his lip for a few seconds until he bit himself and tasted blood. “Oh, crap!”

“What? What does it mean?”

“I bit myself.”

“You’re not helping here.”

Rosswell massaged his cheek. “Now, listen, E and Y don’t make any words. E and Y, Y and E. Nothing.”

“YE is Old English for
the
and also for
you
.”

“That’s pretty esoteric.”

“I’ll tell you something else. YE is the Internet notation for Yemen and YE is also a common Chinese surname.”

“Yemen?” Visions of terrorists danced in Rosswell’s head. “China?”

Maybe a band of Commies was behind the dual murders. “What about EY?”

Maybe Commie terrorists planted that knife under my couch.

“EY,” Ollie said. “Election year?”

The sounds of the street fair conjured up memories of political
rallies, complete with hot air and noisy speeches signifying nothing.

Rosswell admitted, “Election year is scary, but the word or abbreviation has to be something common, very common. Let’s assume the murder or murderers arranged the bodies that way.”

“Assuming here.”

“Yeah, you know you don’t really have to say it that way when you’re agreeing with me. Nod your head or say
okay
or something.”

“Agreeing here.”

Rosswell’s head hurt. Sometimes, instead of talking to Ollie, he’d rather rub his head against a cheese grater. He closed his eyes for a beat before he started again. “Since those letters don’t spell anything, then they must be an abbreviation.”

“Initials.” Ollie had segued into one of his
pissy moods, obviously hoping to distract Rosswell from doing anything completely stupid.

It was an old trick the snitch used. When, in the past, Rosswell had started thinking goofy, Ollie pissed him off and then Rosswell came up with good ideas.

“A name,” Rosswell said. “My thought exactly.”

“Who do we know who has the initials E. Y. or Y. E.?”

They consulted the telephone directory. Yes, it could be someone who didn’t have a telephone or had a cellphone. They could check the voter registration and tax rolls during regular office hours. Now, Rosswell suggested Elizabeth Young, Yancey Eberhardt, and Yardley Edgeworth, names he’d spotted in the phone book.

Rosswell said, “Do you know any of those people?”

“All of them. Elizabeth Young is a teacher who regularly screws up her computer at home and at school. Yancey Eberhardt works at a saw-mill. He doesn’t own a computer. Yardley Edgeworth is from London, England. Quite computer literate. How he found Marble Hill, I don’t know.”

“Are they all present and accounted for?”

“Only one way to find out.” Ollie handed Rosswell the desk phone. “Start calling.”

Rosswell dialed each of them. Elizabeth Young’s answering machine picked up, but he left no message. Yancey
Eberhardt didn’t answer and didn’t have an answering machine. Yardley Edgeworth picked up on the first ring. Rosswell put the call on speakerphone.

“Are you there?”
Eberhardt said, in a proper British accent.

Well, yeah, I’m here. What did that mean?

“Umm … yes,” Rosswell said. “I’m here. Is this Mister Yardley Edgeworth?”

“It is.”

“This is—”

“I know who it is, Judge Carew. I have caller ID.”
Damn.
Rosswell hadn’t thought of that.
Good thing I didn’t call from my cellphone.
He didn’t want that number made public.

Rosswell said, “Mr.
Edgeworth, have you heard of the unfortunate
deaths we’ve had here in the county?”

“Beastly.”

“Yes. They were pretty bad.” A mint that he’d previously missed on his desktop begged him to eat it. Rosswell obliged. The sharp cinnamon flavor cleared his sinuses. Breathing made him happy.

“When I moved here, I didn’t realize we’d be competing with St. Louis and Kansas City on murder rates.” There was a distinct sniff from
Edgeworth.

“I’m working on a press release and, for additional human interest, I’d like to know how you, a
Britisher, feel about such things happening in your adopted land.”

If Ollie had rolled his eyes any harder, he’d have fallen over. As it was, suppressing his laughter made him wobbly. Rosswell put his finger to his mouth, hoping to shush Ollie.

“Judge Carew,” Edgeworth said, “it’s bloody beastly, pardon the foul language.”

“I appreciate your time. Thank you.”

Edgeworth hung up without saying good bye.

“Press release?” Ollie said. “
Britisher?
”

“You’re not supposed to say Chinaman anymore. I didn’t think Englishman was still politically correct. I had to think fast.”

“The British don’t use the term
Britisher
.”

“Tough. We’re in America and we won that war.”

At this point, Rosswell had come up with exactly one clue. The only thing he knew now that he didn’t know when he spotted the corpses was that the bodies had been arranged in a way that mimicked semaphore signals. And he had no idea why the killer had the bodies signaling an E and a Y. Or a Y and an E.

“Judge, maybe they’re not letters.”

“What do you mean they’re not letters? Y and E are letters.”

“Maybe the clue isn’t using those letters as letters, but as part of a symbol or picture.”

“Yes.” Ollie’s mind worked differently than Rosswell’s. Speaking of clues, Rosswell didn’t have one when it came to understanding what Ollie was talking about. “I was thinking along those lines. You go ahead and elaborate.”

“Let me draw my guesses.” For two or three pages’ worth, Ollie scratched stick men, strange symbols, and gibberish. Eventually he threw down the pencil. “This is crap. Let’s put that idea aside for now.”

“How many people do we have on the really good suspect list?”

“Counting the names we put on there today?”

“Yeah.”

“None.”

“I’m a crappy detective.”

I’m a damn good detective. Ollie knows that. He’ll back me up. He’ll make me feel better.

“Yes, you are one lousy private eye.”

Well, at least he didn’t say,
Agreeing here.

Rosswell said, “I’m giving up. I’m going to find Frizz.”

“Frizz already told you to give up.”

“I want to tell him the semaphore clue. Then I’m giving up.”

“I’m going back to Merc’s. I could be missing a lot of juicy gossip.” Rosswell was locking the outside courthouse door when he heard a small voice say, “Sir, may I talk to you about signaling?”

Rosswell turned around to find Ollie staring down at a young Boy Scout. The round-faced scout had no rank on his uniform, which meant he was a Tenderfoot. Rosswell recognized him as being one of the boys under the tutelage of the Eagle Scout at the mirror and semaphore demonstration.

“Sure,” Rosswell said. “Talk away.”

“Bobby doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” The kid’s uniform was immaculate and his short brown hair was perfectly combed.

Ollie said, “Who’s Bobby?”

The kid stared up at Ollie, probably amazed that human rats could talk. “The Eagle Scout.”

Rosswell said, “What’s your name?”

“Franklin Pierce
Hillsman.”

Another glacial coldness slugged Rosswell in the gut. “Are you
Hermie’s son?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rosswell was stunned into silence. Ollie proved to be the better man than Rosswell because he said, “We’re sorry about your daddy.”

“Thank you, sir.” Franklin drew himself to attention, clicked his heels together, and saluted. “I miss my daddy. He helped me a lot.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

What is the child doing here? Hermie’s funeral isn’t until Monday. There’s no nice way to ask.

A woman dressed in black from neck to shoes strode up to the boy. “I’m Emma Borland
Hillsman.” She stuck out her hand to shake hands with Ollie first, and then with Rosswell. “I’m this young Scout’s mother and proud of him.” Her pale red hair and square head gave testimony that she was indeed Neal’s sister.

Rosswell was astounded. This woman’s husband had been murdered yesterday, yet here she was at a street fair with her son. He said, “I’m sorry about Hermie. He and I had some long talks.”

“One talk you didn’t have with him, Judge Carew.”

“What was that, Mrs.
Hillsman?”

“Our ancestry. We come from good Scots stock, Hermie and I do. We landed in Virginia in the seventeenth century and made our way in a wild land.”

Rosswell, although naturally proud of Scots folks making good in the world, was baffled. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Hillsman.”

She continued. “We fought disease and the British. We nearly froze to death in the winter. We came close to starving several times. We crossed half this country to settle in these hills a hundred and twenty- five years ago, our families did. I’m going to bury my husband on Monday, but if he were standing right here, he’d tell Franklin that he should be doing his flags because Franklin comes from good stock.”

Ollie said, “Wow.” Rosswell made a mental note that he needed to keep Emma Borland Hillsman in mind the next time Ollie needed a good lecturing. Hearing her warmed the cockles of Rosswell’s heart.

Wait. What’s a cockle?

Franklin said, “My momma said that my daddy would want me to participate today, especially since he and I had been practicing our flags.” He wiped his eyes and straightened his neckerchief.

“Your momma is right.” Rosswell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and, not bothering to remove his trifocals, wiped his face. “And, thank you, Mrs.
Hillsman, for raising such a fine son. I know Hermie was proud of him.” Rosswell prayed for forgiveness because he knew no such thing for sure, and besides, he added to the prayer, he hoped young Franklin never touched booze.

Two girls walked by, toting huge sticks of cotton candy that carried a cooked sugar smell. The hamburger guy poured freshly cut onions on the grill, their sizzle sending out sharp scents. Four or five Harleys started at the same time. The noise level made hearing the boy difficult.

Emma said, “Franklin needs to tell you all something about Bobby.”

Ollie said, “Franklin, what was it you wanted to tell us?”

“A lady gave money to Bobby when she saw you all coming.”

Rosswell said, “A lady? What lady?”

He directed their attention to the crowd. “That lady right over there.”

Rosswell’s eyes followed where Franklin
Pierce Hillsman’s finger pointed. Rosswell would never fire a gun in a crowd, but the woman could be dangerous. A murderer. Patting his .38 to make sure it was still in his pocket, he prayed he’d never have to use it. Especially in public.

Rosswell said, “Which woman?”

Ollie craned his neck to search the crowd. Being taller than Rosswell, he might’ve been able to spot the woman in question before Rosswell did, who couldn’t see who the boy had pointed out. Ollie gave no sign that he saw her either.

Franklin shook his head. “She’s gone.”

Rosswell asked him, “What does she look like?”

“Big. Old.”

The boy would be 12 next week. Anyone over 21 years of age would look old to him.

Ollie said, “What color hair does she have?”

“I’m colorblind,” he said.

Rosswell said, “Was it dark or light hair?”

“Medium. Maybe gray.”

Candy doesn’t have gray hair. The kid’s colorblind. Candy’s dirty blonde hair
could’ve looked gray to him.

Ollie lined up next to Rosswell. “Was she as tall as I am or as tall as the judge?”

Franklin studied the two men. “In between.”

Rosswell said, “Franklin, this is really important.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rosswell said, “What was she wearing?”

The boy thought for a moment. “Blue jeans. But not the tight kind. The kind that’s loose and floppy. And a sweatshirt and a ball cap and sunglasses.” Franklin closed his eyes, perhaps envisioning the woman. His eyes popped open. “One more thing. She had a big bracelet. Maybe two or three bracelets on each wrist.”

Ollie said, “That’s a good description. Your daddy would be proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Rosswell said, “Anything else?”

“She smelled funny.”

“What,” Ollie said, “did she smell like?”

“Vegetable oil.”

Rosswell said, “Franklin, you’re quite observant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The young scout shook Rosswell’s hand. Franklin’s small hand, warm and sweaty, still managed a firm grasp on Rosswell’s hand. The boy gave the handshake of a man.

Rosswell said, “Do you know why the lady gave money to Bobby?”

“She wanted him to lie to you.”

“We need to know something.” Ollie cleared his throat. “What did she want Bobby to lie about?” Ollie began rubbing his head, a sure sign of nervousness. He was a hound dog on a hot scent.

“What the semaphore signals meant.”

The lady murderer had bribed Bobby, an Eagle Scout. Or at least an Eagle Scout got bribed by someone who knew about the murders. An Eagle Scout accepting a bribe! The world was spinning out of control. The bribery of an Eagle Scout will never make my report. I don’t want anyone knowing that an Eagle Scout could stoop so low. Wait. Report? What report? I’m not making a report because I’m quitting this nonsense.

But.

Rosswell couldn’t help but wonder how the murderer knew where he and Ollie would be. The answer was simple. Without a doubt, he was being tailed. And so was Ollie. Why hadn’t the murderer, using a gun with a silencer, simply sneaked up on them and popped them in the middle of that noisy crowd? The bad girl could be gone before anyone realized that they were dead.

Does Candy want us alive for some reason?

“Franklin,” Rosswell said, “do you know if Bobby told me a lie?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” He glanced over his shoulder, apparently to make sure Bobby couldn’t hear him before he answered. The fallen Eagle Scout chatted with two girls who appeared to be inspecting merit badges on the sash he wore. “He told you two lies.”

Franklin was perceptive way beyond his years. Rosswell hoped that Hermie had recognized that quality in his son.

“You know a lot for being as young as you are,” Ollie said.

“My daddy always said that.”

Yes! Good for you, Hermie.

Rosswell asked, “What two lies?”

“This—” Franklin demonstrated with his arms “—isn’t the letter Y. It’s an N.”

Rosswell said, “I’m guessing the second lie was about the letter E.”

“Yes, sir.” Again, Franklin demonstrated. “That’s a D, not an E.” Rosswell said to Emma
Hillsman, “We’re proud of your son.”

Emma said, “It’s a requirement for a merit badge, what he’s doing here today. Hermie would’ve wanted him here. Franklin promised
Hermie last year that if he got to join Boy Scouts, he’d make his daddy proud and become an Eagle.”

Franklin said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, Judge Carew.”

Rosswell said, “Mrs. Hillsman, would you and your son walk around with us awhile to see if you can spot the woman?”

Emma said to Franklin, “Answer the man.”

“Yes, sir.” After 15 minutes, they aborted the mission. None of the females in the crowd came close to Franklin’s description. Surely, Rosswell thought, the woman hadn’t been stupid enough to hang around after the bribery. Rosswell thanked the boy and his mother. After the two melted into the crowd, Ollie and Rosswell ran for Rosswell’s office. Rosswell leafed through the D’s in the telephone book, the pages rustling.

Rosswell said, “We need to find someone who smells like vegetable oil.”

“Franklin was describing someone we know.”

“Candy.”

“She does a lot of cooking but she’s not old.”

“Ollie, crap. The kid is eleven, twelve next week. He thinks if you’re twenty-one, you’re at death’s door.”

“Then … yeah, okay.” Ollie thought for a moment. “Yes, the kid was describing Candy. But she’s in jail.”

“Scratch Candy. By the way, what’s a cockle?”

“A clam. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” Rosswell refused to form the picture of Emma
Hillsman warming the clams of his heart.

Then, starting toward the back at the N’s, Rosswell found the only ND in the telephone book. “Ninepins Dixie? Isn’t that supposed to be Dixie Ninepins, the bowling alley? I didn’t think businesses were listed that way.”

“This is the phone company.”

“Yes, of course.”

That time of day, the sunlight shone on his desk. The telephone book, lying square in the light, couldn’t help them. Words, even when brilliantly lit on the page, mean nothing if the reader can’t interpret them. The phone book was useless.

Ollie said, “I can’t believe that’s the only ND in the whole book.”

“Believe it. That won’t help us unless someone’s been bludgeoned with a bowling pin.”

“Especially, since the bowling alley uses ten pins, not nine. Ten pins are big and common. Nine pins are smaller and not too common around these parts.”

“Why do they call it Ninepins?”

“Must be some kind of marketing ploy.”

“A ploy that’s lost on me.” Rosswell riffled through the D’s.“Dahlbert

Nathaniel. That’s the name of the detective in those P. D. James novels.”

“No, that’s Adam Dalgliesh. Not even close.”

“And you didn’t know who Mycroft Holmes was?”

“I don’t know everything.” Ollie straightened to his full height to give Rosswell his best pronouncement. “Most everything I know. But not everything.”

“Is this guy another
Britisher?”

“Weird guy. He moved here from Miami last year. I set up his com-
puter system. Nathaniel sells used books online.”

Rosswell dialed Dahlbert’s number, thinking that Ollie would definitely know weird when he saw it. No answer and no answering machine. “Why don’t these people have answering machines?” After fifteen rings, he hung up.

“I used to get irritated when I connected to an answering machine. Now I get irritated if I don’t.”

After noting his address, they drove to Nathaniel’s house, a trim cottage about four blocks from the courthouse. Parked next to the blue house under the carport, was a silver Infiniti with 15-inch tires. Several potted ferns sat in the shade of the front porch. A
hummingbird feeder, full of red hummingbird nectar hung above one of the ferns.

Rosswell said, “Think we should call Frizz?”

“And tell him what? We found one of the two hundred vehicles that might match the description that Hermie gave you?”

Rosswell wrote down the car’s tag number. They walked to the door and Rosswell knocked. The curtain on the front window drew back about an inch. Someone was checking them out. After a moment, a tall man with close-cropped bright red hair answered. He didn’t appear to be an albino. Nonetheless, he was one of the whitest men Rosswell had ever seen.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Dahlbert?” Rosswell asked.

“The same. And whom might you two be?”

Rosswell introduced himself and Ollie. Nathaniel invited them in. After all, the two visitors didn’t appear to be common burglars. Rosswell thought that he himself looked like a vacuum cleaner salesman, maybe, but not like a burglar. Ollie looked like a hoodlum. The star-shaped purple tattoo on his bald head must not have bothered Nathaniel.

Rosswell said, “I’m trying to track down the driver of a silver car that was out at Foggy Top the other day.”

Nathaniel tilted his head, a sign of curiosity. “Sit down.” If he thought the question was odd, he gave no indication.

Ollie and Rosswell sat on the long, green couch in his living room. Nathaniel commandeered the tartan La-Z-Boy recliner.

Nathaniel picked up a cup of steaming black tea, squeezed a lemon slice in it, and asked, “Join me in a cup of tea?”

There were several white cups, thin enough to read a newspaper through, snuggled next to a silver tea set.

“Sure,” said Ollie. “Plain.”

“Make mine six lumps,” Rosswell said. “No milk. It dilutes the sugar taste.”

The end table next to Nathaniel’s chair held the telephone and the answering machine. Every inch of the room was crammed with books, categorized by their Library of Congress number. His house was neater and cleaner than Rosswell’s, who was anal about house- keeping. The thought that maybe there was a Mrs. Dahlbert flitted across Rosswell’s weary brain, and then he dismissed it with the realization that no woman would allow a man to keep all his books in the living room.

Ollie drank half his cup of tea in one gulp. “Mr. Dahlbert, have you been in the vicinity of Foggy Top lately?”

“I don’t believe that I’ve ever been in that vicinity.” His puzzled appearance seemed genuine. “Or if I’ve been close, it was by accident. I’m not sure where it is. I’m not even sure what Foggy Top is.”

What was Ollie expecting? That the guy would break down crying and confess to being the murderer? The man had never even heard of the park.

“It’s a state park,” Rosswell said, and explained how to get there. Then he said, “Have you loaned your car to anyone recently?”

When Nathaniel folded his hands together, Rosswell spotted an exact duplicate of the ring that he’d found at the crime scene. Nathaniel wore it on his right hand. There wasn’t a wedding band on his left hand.

“No,” he said. His voice sounded strained.

“That’s a nice ring,” said Rosswell.

“
Virtus junxit mors non separabit
,” Ollie said.

Nathaniel sipped from his cup. “That’s the motto on the inside of the ring.”

“Are you a Mason?” Rosswell asked Nathaniel.

“Yes, I am.”

Ollie said, “Do you know a Mason around here with the initials EJD?” Nathaniel chuckled. “Those letters aren’t the initials of a person. A breakaway group from the Masons kept a lot of the rites and symbols, but they added EJD to the motto you just spoke.”

Rosswell stirred his tea before drinking it. “What’s the translation of the original motto?”

“‘Virtue unites us, death won’t separate us’. That’s a loose translation. A lot of Latin scholars cringe when they hear the motto translated that way.”

Ollie said, “What’s with the EJD then?”

“Those are the first letters of an English motto: Even Just Die. The
just
in that motto is a noun, meaning ‘just ones’. Sloppy English, but you get the drift.”

Nathaniel stood and retrieved a thick volume from a shelf. “You gentleman are investigating the murders.” He leafed through the book. Its cover was brown.

Neither Ollie nor Rosswell answered. They didn’t have to. They were that obvious.

“Maybe,” Nathaniel said, “you need to buy this informative book on forensics.” Always the salesman, he handed the book to Rosswell.

Rosswell declined the book. “Thanks, but right now I don’t need that.”

“I’ve got books on every aspect of criminal investigation, from how the mind works to talking to suspects to how to do autopsies.” He swept his arm around, pointing to all the shelves. “And if there’s a title you need that I don’t stock, I’ll get it for you at the lowest cost anywhere.”