Dead Between the Lines (5 page)

“Who was this guy?”

“Lance Quistgaard.” That name would be hard to forget. “Supposedly he’s local, but I don’t recall ever seeing him before.”

“Can you describe him?” Eldridge tapped his notepad with his pencil.

After I told the chief what Quistgaard looked like, Eldridge nodded, then gazed out the windshield for what seemed like a long time.

Finally, he opened the Suburban’s door and said, “Come with me.”

This time as the chief led me toward the back door of my store, he made sure I was following him. He stopped as we passed a man leaning against a car and snapped, “Krefeld, if you won an award for laziness, you’d send someone else to pick it up.”

The man scurried off, and we were a few steps from the building when Chief Kincaid ordered me to wait. Once he was satisfied that I was following his command, he approached a woman wearing a Tyvek coverall and hairnet, standing near a large cardboard box that had held a shelving unit that had arrived Friday morning. I couldn’t hear what he said to the crime-scene tech, but she moved out of the way.

Motioning for me to join him, the chief used a black rubber glove to flip open the flaps of the carton. It took me a millisecond to grasp what I was seeing, and when I did, I gulped and leapt backward. Inside the coffinlike box, eyes wide-open and staring, lay Lance Quistgaard, both hands clutching a wooden stake, which had been driven through his heart.

C
HAPTER 5

“Y
es.” I answered the chief’s question, rubbing my arms. I was suddenly chilled despite my sweatshirt and the mild May temperature. “That’s the speaker from tonight.” I fought to keep down the pizza I’d eaten earlier as nausea rose in my throat and threatened to empty my stomach. “I mean, last night, since now it’s today, so the meeting was yesterday.”

Chief Kincaid ignored my babbling. Evidently, my green complexion didn’t make an impression on him either, since he didn’t offer me a barf bag. Instead, he demanded, “You’re sure the stiff in the cardboard box is Lance Quistgaard, the author at the meeting?”

“Definitely.” I cringed as I took another peek at the dead man. “Why are you asking me who he is? Doesn’t he have any identification?”

“No.” The chief nodded to the crime-scene tech that she could resume whatever she’d been doing, then took my elbow and steered me back toward his SUV. “There’s no wallet or keys in his pockets.”

“So you think this was a robbery gone bad?” I opened the door and climbed into the Chevy’s passenger seat, grateful to sit down.

“It’s too early in the investigation to form a viable theory.” Chief Kincaid’s eyebrows rose when he noticed my chattering teeth and uncontrollable shivering. Scowling, he cranked up the Suburban’s heat, reached behind him, and tossed me a blanket. “When you closed the store last night, I assume you left by the rear exit, since that’s where you were parked?” He waited for my nod, then continued. “Are you certain you locked it?”

“Yes.” I thought back, then nodded emphatically. “I let everyone out the front, turned the knob on the dead bolt on that door, went into the storeroom, got my purse from the desk drawer there, and used my key to lock the back door once I was outside.”

The chief stared at me. Then, as if making a decision, he said, “It was unlocked when the first officer arrived on the scene.”

“Was—” I started to ask a question.

Chief Kincaid held up his hand. “Nothing appears to be disturbed inside the store, but I do need you to take a look and confirm that. As of now, we believe the murder took place between the building and the Dumpster. We don’t have a time of death—obviously it’s between when you left at nine fifteen and when the officer noticed the blood trail on his ten-o’clock rounds.”

“Oh.” Well, that explained how the body was discovered. “I didn’t know the police had appointed rounds. Do you have the same slogan as mail carriers?”

“Of course, my officers do regular foot patrols of the business area. They pay special attention to the back-alley entrances of businesses. If the doorways aren’t illuminated by the halogen floodlights we recommend to discourage break-ins, the officer examines the area with his Maglite. All of my people are equipped with the ML125, which is among the brightest flashlights available.” The chief rolled his eyes. “And, no, we do not have the same motto as the post office.”

“Good to know.” I’d forgotten how much Poppy’s father liked to lecture. I took a breath and asked the question that I’d been avoiding. “I’m not a suspect, am I?” After my experience with a Kansas City detective who had been determined to pin the murder of my ex-boyfriend’s fiancée on me, I wanted to be absolutely clear about my status in the investigation. “Right?”

“Not if you can produce your other sweatshirts for the officer who will accompany you to your house when you leave here.” Eldridge’s voice was firm as he added, “And as long as the people who were at the meeting last night say you were wearing the color sweatshirt you presently have on, then, no, you are not a current suspect.”

“Why is my choice of clothing so important?” I asked, then answered myself, “Duh! Earlier, you mentioned a blood trail.” I paused to think, then said, “Which means whoever killed Quistgaard would be covered in blood, either from the stabbing itself or when he or she was dragging the body and wrestling it into the box.”

“Exactly.”

“But how would they do it?” I tried to remember the anatomy course that I had taken my freshman year in college. “Wouldn’t it take a lot of strength to drive a stake into someone’s chest?”

“If the weapon was aimed directly over the sternum, yes, it would take a great deal of power to do so.” The chief rolled his pencil between his palms.

“So the stake is off center?”

“We don’t have that information yet.” Eldridge reached for the door handle. “Are you ready to take a look inside your store?”

“Totally.” I jumped out of the Chevy and headed toward the building. As sorry as I was for the murdered man, my business was vital for Birdie’s well-being. It was what put food on the table and kept shelter over our heads. Without it, I’d have to take a job in the city and Gran might have to go into assisted living. To say that I was anxious to make sure everything was okay was like saying that Hurricane Sandy had been a light breeze.

Chief Kincaid escorted me to the front entrance, watched as I used my key to open the door, and followed me across the threshold. We walked the aisles in silence, and my anxiety lessened with every step. I didn’t see any evidence of theft or vandalism. Next, we checked out the back room, and I let out an audible sigh of relief when I saw that the safe was undisturbed. Still, I opened it and verified that the contents hadn’t been stolen.

Once I confirmed that nothing appeared to have been touched, the chief asked, “Who, besides you, has a key to the building?”

“No one.” I hadn’t felt the need to give one to any of my employees.

“How many sets do you have?” Eldridge paced the length of the storage area.

“Three.” I counted off on my fingers. “The one in my purse. The one at home in my desk. And the one that I keep in the safe here.”

“Have you lost one at any time or had your pocketbook stolen?”

I shook my head. “And I’ve never misplaced a set or been mugged.”

“The key was in there just now?” Eldridge pointed toward the safe.

“Right here.” I reached inside, grabbed the vintage Coca-Cola bottle cap key chain, and dangled it in front of the chief’s face.

“I’ll need you to allow the officer to see the key at your home when you show her your sweatshirts.” Eldridge continued to pace.

“Okay,” I agreed, willing to help the police in any way I could.

“You are absolutely, positively sure you locked the back door?” Eldridge stopped in front of me and stared at me until I squirmed.

“Yes.” I did a quick mental rewind of the evening. “I’m sure.”

“Then someone had to have hidden in the store and unlocked the door from the inside.” Eldridge crossed his arms. “But from the trail of blood, the murder took place outside. We looked earlier and there was no sign of blood in here.”

“Will you have to dust the store for prints?” I asked, cringing at the thought of the mess the fingerprint powder would leave behind.

“There’s no point.” Eldridge ground his teeth. “In a public place like this there are thousands of prints, and we’d expect to find evidence here of everyone who was at the meeting.”

“True,” I quickly agreed, happy that they were leaving my store alone.

“The question is, Was the person who hid inside and then unlocked the door Quistgaard?” Eldridge refocused the conversation. “Maybe when he walked out of the meeting, he didn’t leave the store. Or could it have been someone else in attendance?”

“He’s one possibility.” I leaned against a file cabinet and closed my eyes to help remember everything that had happened that evening. “But Addie left the meeting early, too, and I didn’t see him leave the store, either.”

“Who do you recall leaving when the meeting was over?” Chief Kincaid continued to stare at me as if he could force my memory to improve.

“Uh.” With the chief glaring at me, I suddenly wasn’t sure who I’d seen and who I hadn’t. “I just don’t remember.” I nibbled on my thumbnail. “I was in the storeroom most of the time, stacking the chairs and tables as the members brought them back there.”

“You must at least remember the last person, since you said you locked the door after him or her.” Eldridge’s mouth was a white line of frustration. “Who was the final one? The lingerer?”

Had it been Mrs. Zeigler? No. In fact, she and I had both forgotten about the basket she’d said she wanted to order. I’d have to call her and get the information. How about Xylia? No, definitely not my clerk. I would have remembered her, because I’d wanted to ask her if she could work a couple of extra days this coming week, since I had a lot of basket orders to fill. So who had it been?

“The newspaper guy,” I blurted out, having finally realized the identity of the man who had looked so familiar. “I can’t think of his name.”

“Grant Edwyn?” Eldridge asked. “The
Shadow Bend Banner
’s editor?”

“That’s the one. I kept trying to figure out how I knew him, and it just popped into my head a couple of seconds ago.” I stepped over to my desk and dug an old newspaper from the bottom drawer. Flipping to the second page, I pointed to a picture. “This is him.”

“He was the last to go?”

“Yes. I can’t recall the others, but he offered to walk me to my car.” Slumping, I fought back a bubble of hysterical laughter. “I told him that this was Shadow Bend, not Kansas City, and I’d be fine alone. After all, we didn’t have much street crime around here.”

Chief Kincaid patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, then pretended to study his notes while I regained my equilibrium. Once I was sure that I wouldn’t embarrass us both by either bursting into tears or demanding a hug, the chief asked if I was ready to leave.

The rear exit was off-limits until the crime-scene techs were finished gathering their evidence, so when I nodded, we made our way to the front of the store. As we passed the
APRIL SHOWERS BRINGS MAY FLOWERS
display facing the entrance, I glanced at it and frowned. Something was off. I turned to look at the scene full-on. All the merchandise was present—the table, chairs, flowers, even the borrowed grill. So what was wrong? I examined it one more time, then silently gasped.

It was the picket fence that I had arranged across the front of the display. I had installed it by sticking each post in a dozen or so clay pots filled with dirt. A stake at the very end was missing. Probably no one else would notice, but I had worked on that fence on and off for the better part of an entire day to make it perfect.

Suddenly I knew where the murder weapon had been obtained. The question was, Should I mention it to the chief? I couldn’t afford to have him shut down my store. Saturday was my busiest and most profitable day, and with the unexpected expense of the new roof that I’d had to put on a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t have any extra funds to make up for the loss of revenue. The police already knew someone had been in the building and the chief had said dusting for prints was useless, so what kind of evidence could they possibly find?

“Is there a problem?” Chief Kincaid asked as he paused halfway out the front door.

“Not at all.”
Shoot!
Now he was suspicious. “I . . . uh . . . just thought of something I have to do tomorrow. I’m free to open the store, right?”

“Yeah.” He twitched his shoulders. “We’ll keep the back lot barricaded until the techs have a chance to look over the evidence they’ve gathered, but the dime store itself is fine.”

“Great.” I hurried over to him and once we were outside relocked the front door. “Do you need me for something else or can I go now?” I glanced at my watch. It was nearly two in the morning. “I have to be back here in less than seven hours, and I’d like to get a little sleep.”

“You can leave as soon as I assign an officer to accompany you.” The chief escorted me outside and said to Jessie Huang, “Follow Ms. Sinclair to her home. Escort her inside, have her show you her sweatshirts—there should be seven, including the one she has on—then make sure her spare key is accounted for and report back here.”

“Yes, sir.” Jessie touched the brim of her hat, not quite saluting, then said to me, “I’ll take you to your car, and we can depart from that location.”

“Thanks.” As I got into her squad car, I assured myself that I’d tell the chief about the missing picket-fence post after I closed the store tomorrow. That way, if Chief Kincaid felt he needed to have the crime-scene unit process my shop, they would have from six p.m. Saturday until I reopened at noon on Monday. And I wouldn’t lose any business.

As I drove home with the cruiser’s lights in my rearview mirror, my conscience nagged at me a bit. I knew an upright citizen would report her suspicions about the stake to the police straightaway, but I had spent a long time in the field of investment counseling, and that job had demagnetized my moral compass so that I was no longer sure which direction was true north.

Was telling the chief immediately really the right thing to do if no one would be hurt by delaying the information, while fessing up right away might mean hardship for my grandmother? Her medication was expensive, and Medicare Part D didn’t pay half the cost. Then there were those other little necessities, like food and shelter.

People who received regular paychecks had no idea of the fine financial line walked by those of us who owned our own business. Besides, I was only waiting sixteen hours, not even a whole day. What could go wrong?