Bouncer (10 page)

“So, I was right wasn’t I?”

Thayne frowned. “What are you searching for, Fox? Validation that your hunches are correct? Well, you were right,
this time.
Thad wasn’t killed here, and Connie was well taken care of. And I would agree that she likely didn’t kill him.”

“Because of her lavish meal ticket.”

“No . . . because she loved him.”

“What?”

Thayne tossed a letter onto her lap. She opened it carefully and then cleared her throat. “Not a bad poet.” Nick added a couple additional syrupy cards and Lea bit her lip. “So, big deal—he was fond of her, too. I guess one should never underestimate the power of love.”

Nick started the engine while adding disdainfully, “These cards practically gush with Thad declaring his undying devotion. So, that means both women are off our list.”

“Maybe Connie is, but I think it makes Trish Fisher a more credible suspect. Most women will forgive an indiscretion or even a husband’s habitual adultery, but a scorned wife, whose husband loves another, can become a lethal killer. Trish is back on my list.”

“Women and all their damn emotions and moods.”

“Inconvenient, aren’t they?” she agreed as if she’d never held those noxious faults herself. Fox sat quietly upon the cream-covered leather of the ’68 Mustang, lost in thought. She fussed over the F & H for a couple minutes before slapping shut the cover. “Where to next, Thayne?

“I want to check out the field. You haven’t seen it yet, and I’d like your opinion. Who knows, maybe our Connie’s pushing up the soil close by.”

“And I need to need to talk to Philemon Jenkins,” added Lea.

“About what?” asked Nick. “You think he might be withholding information?”

“Perhaps, or it may simply boil down to the fact he may not have known he was contributing to a crime.” said Lea. “Dr. Koh suggests some sort of heavy instrument was responsible for the detachment of Thad Fisher’s finger. Perhaps pruning shears might have done the trick and who better to supply that tool except for a gardener?”

“But he found the body by chance.”

“It appears that way, but you have to remember the proximity rule.”

“The proximity rule?” asked Nick.

“That’s right. A person in the proximity may not be directly responsible for a crime but might have unwittingly contributed to it, or worse, been motivated by circumstance. For example, if you wanted to get rid of someone, maybe you were in a garage and in that garage you grabbed something as a weapon, like a screwdriver. Later, wanting to remove the finger or an object upon that finger you grab another convenient object such as pruning shears. Philemon seems innocent, but we can’t rule out his later robbery of that fancy ring Thad wore. I believe Mrs. Simms, Philemon’s employer, has a gardening shed?”

“I’d believe she does.”

“Then we need to have a chat.”

Personally, Nick would lay money on an irate mistress or disgruntled other lover rather than an opportunistic gardener.

“So, how much did this put you back?” asked Lea as she fidgeted in the cramped front seat.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Mustang. You told Tyson it was a ‘68?”

“Yup. I purchased it in mint condition. I managed to find one with a 4-speed manual, and though it cost a good chunk of money, it’s worth every penny. About thirty grand at the time and in prime condition.”

“You like cars I take it?”

“Yeah, I enjoy fiddling with them. Cars respond if you take good care of them. Give them a nice coat of wax and keep ‘em tuned up, they’ll be your best friend forever.”

“Kinda like a mistress,” mused Lea.

“Believe me, they’re a whole lot cheaper and tons easier to deal with. We’re coming onto Chester Street now.”

Noontime, Saturday

The police had cordoned off the entire field adjoining the Simms and Collins houses on the cul-de-sac. Randy Phelps stood overseeing the meticulous analysis of the field.

“Any luck yet?” Nick asked the younger officer.

“Nothing. We found some rusted old cans to the north of the field near the river in an unsavory area where people have been walking their dogs, but other than that, except for the site directly under the Magnolia tree, nobody has disturbed more than a top inch of soil for a long time.”

“No wayward finger?” asked Lea, though she hadn’t expected them to find it.

“No, not at all,” said Officer Phelps seriously, “but you’ll be the first to know.” He was a short, broad-shouldered man not much taller than 5’5” and one of the only officers to directly address Lea Fox.

She appreciated it.

“Thank you very much, Officer Phelps. I’ll be speaking with you later.”

“Friend of yours?” asked Nick. He wished he’d opted for his blue jeans instead of the gray suit. Comfort sometimes needed to override style. He glanced at Fox’s awful outfit and shuddered. Hers was neither comfortable nor stylish. Jeez.

“No, just a man who knows how to be professional. I met him right after he’d hired onto the station. His older brother is a lawyer and was a friend of my brother Lane. So, this is the Simms property?”

“And across there is the Collins house. I’d like to try there first before we head to Mrs. Simms.”

Lea stood for a long moment analyzing the fortress-like house and its ten-foot walls. The other houses on the block had low fences or none at all, their lovely gardens exposed to the wide street. A small child on a tricycle pedaled furiously in the hot afternoon sun, oblivious to the police activity or the heat.

“Let’s see if anybody’s home,” said Lea marching up to the gate and ringing the intercom. Distantly, she could hear the bell chiming unanswered in the house. She lifted her bespectacled eyes upwards and scanned the second story of the sturdy house. Every window was draped in heavy curtains probably designed to block out the hot sun.

“Are the police planning to gain entry?” she asked Thayne who’d just finished cleaning his sunglasses. From the looks of it, they’d cost at least a couple hundred dollars.

“Chief Rollins is trying to contact the owner, Mr. Collins. We’d prefer not to break the door down since the residence is equipped with a high-powered security system. Plus, we don’t have a warrant yet. Not enough probable cause.” He pointed to the camera.

“I would love to get inside that house,” murmured Lea. “I just wonder . . . ?”

“What?” asked Nick, pushing his hands into trouser pockets and squinting against the bright early afternoon glare.

“It’s strange. It appears more like a prison than a well-protected house. Hopefully we’ll obtain the access code from the owner this afternoon. Meanwhile, let’s go have our visit with Mrs. Simms.”

Chapter 9

“Philemon Jenkins certainly does his job well,” commented Nick a couple minutes later as he tried to hold a civil conversation with Fox, who seemed hell-bent on solving the case before nightfall.

They strolled up the beautifully cobbled sidewalk. The sweet scent of strong fragrant roses filled the afternoon air. While Nick couldn’t name most of the hybrids lining the path, a couple near the house was familiar from his own mother’s garden. He spotted a
Mr. Lincoln
and
Joseph’s Coat
drooping against the relentless heat. Near the front porch, a lovely flowering plant called
Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow
bloomed magnificently even though it was late in the season. The tri-colored flowers sent out their own profuse, sweet scent in challenge to the heavy fragrance emitting from the roses.

Every inch of the ground was cultivated and well kept. The deep, dusty greens gave way to the sweet, fresh leaves of half a dozen pink and white camellias occasionally disrupted by a solitary blood-red hibiscus. Roses, geraniums, and irises vied for space as a golden butterfly, whose pointed tips were shot through with purple velvet, rested lightly upon a magenta geranium before airily lifting itself up over the slanted roof and disappearing beyond the great chimney. Nick lifted the heavy brass knocker after searching for an absent doorbell and heard the responding shuffle of slow moving feet.

Mrs. Simms opened the door feebly. In the bright fall sunlight, she appeared overly pale. Her make-up had been applied like armor, so caked and flaky it suggested she hadn’t worn her glasses when smearing the cream over her lined face. Her jet-black wool dress, unseasonably warm, hung haphazardly upon her bony shoulders, but her hair, in contrast, was tidy while her legs, though painfully thin, were well shaped and free of spider veins. It was obvious she’d once been a pretty and vivacious woman, and even now, at her advanced age, the fine features of an aristocratic face broke through the layers of make-up. She cordially invited the two investigators into her spacious foyer.

“My name’s Inspector Nick Thayne and this is a fellow investigator, Lea Fox. We’re working with the MCPD in the investigation surrounding the murder of the ex-mayor, Thad Fisher. I hope we’re not disturbing you too much, Mrs. Simms, but we need to ask you a few questions.” His voice, so congenial and soothing, immediately disarmed the elderly woman.

“And oh, what a horror, a horror it is,” she stated wringing her pale hands. “Please, please come in.” She led them into her sitting room and sank down upon a lilac couch, her blue-veined hands trembling slightly. “Would you like some tea or coffee or something?”

“We’re fine,” declined Lea, watching the old woman intently.

“I just couldn’t sleep a wink last night knowing that poor man had been dead and just lying there unnoticed in the lot bordering my home. I thought I was so safe and secure here, but now? Oh, how horrible, horrible it is. I could be murdered in my sleep.”

“There, there,” said Nick Thayne gently and reached over to take the elderly woman’s hand. He patted the wrinkled surface.

“We have just a few questions for you and then a quick favor to ask.”

“Of course, of course, anything.” She tried valiantly to present a stout front, but presently, her face crumpled, the tears streaking her heavy make-up as her bony shoulders hunched pathetically.

While Thayne did his best to try and calm the old woman, Lea studied the lovely room. An immense painting, appearing so life-like it startled the on-looker, dominated the high wall of the huge brick fireplace. Above the enormous mantle, a woman held a violin nonchalantly in her left hand while her right languidly grasped a horsehair bow held against her vivid blue dress. Straight, raven-black hair winged her brow and settled in a cloud around her shoulders above a well-formed bust. Shapely legs and incredible high heels, which would have looked ridiculous on some and certainly on Lea, only enhanced the young woman’s marvelous legs. Her straight, aristocratic nose flared slightly below snapping blue eyes.

The rest of the room was no less grand than the woman presiding over it. Herring bone parquet flooring partly covered by a huge circular Chinese rug woven in dusty blue and rose softened the spacious expanse of the expensive room. An enormous vase stuffed with an incredible array of silk flowers looked so lifelike that the gladiolas, baby’s breath, and irises appeared to have been freshly picked from Mrs. Simms’ garden.

The beautiful arched windows overlooking the rose garden spotlighted knick-knacks and souvenirs brilliantly displayed in a burnished, wood-framed glass case housing trinkets from all over the world. Lea noted that tiny, Russian-carved eggs, Swiss music boxes, and gleaming bronze figurines of Hindu Gods filled every recess of the huge glass cabinet as well as being accompanied by countless African carvings in ebony and teak. The woman before them had obviously lived a full and varied life.

A magnificent black Steinway nestled indiscreetly into a far corner made the room seem too somber and cold without some accompanying music. Yet, Lea thought as her eyes scanned the tastefully decorated chamber, the room lacked something. Her brain, organized similarly to the filing cabinets she had searched the previous day, pondered what it might be before hitting on it. Except for the amazing life-like painting, no family photos graced any of the ornate tables. This woman was wealthy, but dismally alone. The elderly woman, starting to relax, straightened her sagging back.

“You are a dear, dear boy,” she said sniffing into a dainty white handkerchief. “I’ll do anything I can to help, though I’m sure Philemon would know much more than I.”

“By the way, that portrait of you is absolutely stunning,” Thayne said, glancing at the impressive painting.

Lea started. That was Mrs. Simms?

“I’m amazed you could recognize me, I’ve changed so much. But thank you, kind sir. That’s one way to lift a woman’s spirits.” Did she actually blush under the layers of make-up?

“Could you just tell us what you know?” interrupted Lea. “We have to get a statement from everyone in the neighborhood.”

“That’s right,” said Nick taking over. He didn’t want Lea’s abrupt nature to further rattle the already shaken woman. “Can you recall the ex-mayor visiting your neighbors across the street any time over the past couple weeks?’

“No,” said the old woman running shaky fingers through her nearly white hair, “but I always retire early. I sleep so poorly now with my arthritis and all and head to bed fairly early because I’m up half the night.”

Nick, about to continue in his sweet smooth tones winced at Fox’s interruption.

“Then perhaps you heard last week’s late-night disturbance at the Collins residence?”

“Disturbance?” repeated Mrs. Simms appearing vaguely confused.

Lea totally ignored Thayne’s drooping mouth. “Yes. All the yelling, accusations, foul language? It happened sometime around midnight on Tuesday?”

“Goodness gracious, I didn’t. Of course, I probably had the TV on. I enjoy the company the noise makes and always fall asleep never remembering just what I was watching. Of course, the quality of shows today is quite appalling. When my dear husband was alive, we had good shows, not this trash like
Jerry Springer
. Those idiotic people he has on as guests make any problems we might have seem minute. Of course, that was until now.”

Nick glared at Lea. This was the first yelling he had heard about. Just what was she getting at?

“But it would have been quite distinct; since I’m positive the street is silent at that hour. Can’t you remember anything at all, Mrs. Simms?”

The old lady frowned hard and then amazingly nodded. “Well, I can’t be sure, you know. I might have dozed off and heard the argument on the TV. That Jerry Springer is a putrid, putrid man.”

Nick bit his lip trying to stifle a laugh.

“He is putrid indeed,” asserted Lea, and Nick suspected she totally agreed with the elderly woman. “Just what exactly did you hear?”

Mrs. Simms totally ignored her, seemingly intent on giving a full commentary regarding her opinion of reality shows.

“There are just some things that shouldn’t be shown on TV. Why, the other night he had men on the show dressed as women and acted like it was an everyday occurrence. Well, I never!”

“Last Tuesday night, though?” restated Lea, intent on getting the woman back to the subject. It didn’t work.

“It wasn’t decent, I’m telling you, not fit for human ears. They were flinging around the ‘f’ word and ‘s’ word as if it was okay to utter those foul profanities. Believe me, the bleeping it out didn’t disguise what they were saying. I remember my younger brother Melvin having his mouth washed out for daring to say such things. The way young people act these days.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lea, “and they were arguing about
what
,
Mrs. Simms?”

Mrs. Simms gave what could only be considered a ladylike snort.

“Money of course. It’s always money. Spend, spend, spend! I was taught to save as a child, to try to earn a wage with an honest day’s work, but now, if you don’t have the money, you borrow. But believe me, missy, everything comes at a price, everything. There’s no free ride. All those people who look like they have it made, well, don’t begrudge them. They worked hard and sacrificed to get what they have. I sacrificed everything to have a good life, and many might say God has punished me for it. But those young hooligans! They make no sacrifices at all.”

“I understand perfectly, Mrs. Simms,” continued Nick smoothly. “So, what you’re saying is that the yelling about money came from the house across the street last Tuesday night.”

The old woman grimaced and looked down at her age-spotted hands. “I think it was Tuesday night, but, young man, I might be confused. It may have been Monday.” At Nick’s pained expression, she snapped. “Oh come on now, young man! At my age all days seem to merge into one. I’m lucky to remember what day Philemon is supposed to come and what to do, so I have to mark the calendar with a red dot and cross off the day just so I don’t leave that poor sweet man standing upon my porch wondering where I am.”

“Very considerate,” mumbled Lea.

“How long have you known Philemon Jenkins?” asked Nick, relieved they had returned to more fertile ground.

“The man has worked for me for over three years. He received an excellent reference from my neighbor down the street, Eliza Carmichael. Unfortunately, she passed away fourteen months ago and before that was in a nursing home, so I kind of inherited Philemon from her. He’s an excellent gardener. His wife sings at the Southern Baptist Church on Cherry Avenue. Such a good man. I’ve never had one moment’s dissatisfaction with him.” Suddenly, the skinny Ms. Simms straightened up and glared at Nick. “You don’t think that he had anything to do with this monstrous affair?” she accused.

“Not really, madam. I’m just asking questions. We have to formulate a solid picture of the workings of the neighborhood before we can move further in the case. Philemon Jenkins found the body, therefore we need to ask questions about him and anyone else who may have had contact with the ex-mayor.”

“Well, if I find you giving that poor man a hard time in any way, you’ll have me to answer to.”

Lea barely stifled a laugh. The little lady couldn’t have been more than ninety-five pounds and looked like a strong breeze would bowl her over.

“Philemon Jenkins is not a suspect at the present time. We just need to note how long he’s worked for you and establish where he was on the probable night of the murder just as we need to know your whereabouts.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Simms huffily. “I told you. I was sleeping. And Philemon has a lovely wife who I’m sure can vouch for him.”

Nick held his hands up in defeat and tactfully changed the subject. “Do you have a garden shed, by any chance?” he asked.

“Why, yes I do. Philemon keeps it nice and tidy. It’s more than a shed, actually; it’s really a greenhouse. That nice young officer came and took my wheelbarrow this morning. There were at least eight or nine of them being hauled into a truck.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Was the murder done with a wheelbarrow?”

Nick smiled. “No, we just need to check all the neighborhood wheelbarrows out. Don’t worry—you’ll get yours back soon.”

“Oh, that will be nice. My greenhouse. Would you like to see it?” A note of pride crept into her brittle voice.

The case for her was simply forgotten, and only delight remained. Nick and Lea followed Mrs. Simms through the stately house and out to the expansive backyard. A huge rectangular greenhouse with glass sides and a slanted, transparent roof sat at the outer edge of the finely manicured garden. The cobbled walkways meandered between various arrays of flowers, and to the right, a huge koi pond benefited from a gushing waterfall under which swam ten to twelve languid gold and white fish.

“This is my pride and joy,” said Mrs. Simms, leading the pair into the overly warm enclosure. The hot house measured at least thirty feet by ten feet and was equipped with long wooden counters lining both sides.

“It’s as big as my first apartment,” muttered Lea studying the incredible variety of orchids.