Loom and Doom (3 page)

This surprised me. I'd always thought city employees earned modest salaries. How much did a house in the Prestige Homes project cost? I wondered.

“Aren't you going to take your coat off?” he asked me. “You must be getting hot.”

“I'm fine. Thanks.” I was just beginning to get over the shivers. The shock, I supposed.

“And by the way,” Dempsey said. “You were right. Swanson is as dead as a doornail.”

I nodded.

Mrs. Renay was taking the news terribly. She wiped the moisture from her red-rimmed eyes, and when she spoke, it was with a tight throat. “Poor man. I can't believe somebody killed him.”

“I can,” Dempsey said. All eyes turned on him.

“What would make you say such a horrible thing?” Mrs. Renay said.

“The man was impossible to work with. He nearly drove a lot of contractors out of business, having them demolish and rebuild things that were perfectly fine, and making them wait and wait for their permits,” he said, looking as if he was dying to name names.

“Like who?” I asked.

“Smithy, Clarkson, Shuttleworth.”

“Shuttleworth?” I said, shocked. “You mean Syd?”

“I don't mean him in particular,” Dempsey said, now backtracking. “You have to understand, in real estate, time is money. Builders have to pay interest on their loans. An extra year on a project is enough to eat up all a man's profits.” I only half listened to what he was saying, my mind preoccupied with Syd Shuttleworth. Dempsey's words supported what Syd had told us, that the inspector had caused all the delays in the project.

“Weren't you worried he'd find flaw after flaw to complain about in any house he bought?” asked Mrs. Renay.

“I was lucky he liked my work. Besides, if I'd refused to sell to him, he'd probably have given me a hard time, just like he did to everybody else. Besides, a sale is a sale.”

At that moment, I heard the sound of sirens getting closer. Dempsey, who had taken a seat on one of the sofas, looked at his watch. “Is it already eleven o'clock?” He jumped to his feet and dashed to the door.

“Hey,” Tom Goodall said, “you can't leave now. The police will want to talk to all of us.”

“Mr. Goodall is right,” I said. “You can't leave until the police allow it. You may think you have nothing to add, but sometimes a person will see things he doesn't even realize is important.”

Dempsey's face turned red. “I don't have to stay here. I didn't hear or see anything. You did. Besides, I have more important things to do than to sit around talking to cops.” He pulled a card from his breast pocket and threw it on the table. “There. If they want to talk to me, they know where to reach me.” He turned and walked out.

“Looks to me like he really didn't want to talk to the police,” Tom Goodall said. “Or maybe he thinks he's more important than the rest of us.”

Mrs. Renay pulled herself to her feet and sighed. “I guess we'd better go outside. They'll be here in a minute.”

From past experience I knew just how grueling a police questioning could be. And since I was the one who'd found the body, I was likely going to be the principle player.

Let the torture begin.

W
e traipsed out through the main hall. To my surprise there wasn't a customer in sight. The few employees who were still inside were huddled behind the counter, looking worried.

“I told everyone to keep the office closed for now,” Goodall explained. “There's no point in having people walking around all over the place until the police are finished here. Besides, everyone is upset. I doubt they could focus on doing their jobs right now.”

We waited at the front of the building.

“Mr. Goodall mentioned you and the victim were close. How long did you know him?” I asked Mrs. Renay, more for the sake of conversation than curiosity. The prospect of being questioned was making me nervous.

“All my life. He and I were in college together.” The faint smile she gave, remembering, made me suspect the two might have dated back then. “Then,” she continued, “a few years after I started working here, he was hired as the city inspector. He's been here nearly as long as I have. And I knew his ex-wife. Though, I haven't seen her in about a year—since she and Howard got divorced. He just got remarried to a younger woman only six months ago. Men are so stupid—marrying a woman half his age. Can you imagine?” I was surprised at the anger in her tone. She seemed to read my mind. “I'm just thinking about Sondra.”

“Sondra . . . you mean the ex-Mrs. Swanson?”

She nodded, then frowned. “Oh, dear. I suppose I'd better call his new wife and give her the tragic news after the police are done with us. How long do you think these things take?”

“It shouldn't take terribly long. No more than half an hour I'd say. They'll only want the important details. They'll contact us later with all further questions.”

At that moment a black-and-white cruiser came to a screeching halt at the curb. The officers stepped out and hurried over. A second later, an ambulance showed up and the emergency team hopped out.

“This way,” Tom Goodall said, waving at them toward the building entrance. “Follow me.”

One of the cops yelled out to the ambulance attendants. “Hey. If the victim's dead, don't disturb the crime scene.”

The younger officer turned to our small group. “Which one of you called to report this?” he asked through his mustache.

“I did,” I said, stepping forward. “I found him. Do you want me to go with you?”

“No,” the older officer replied.

“Hey, Jack. You think one of us should go in? Make sure those guys don't touch anything?”

“Good thinking,” he replied. He was a heavyset man with a ruddy complexion. “I'll talk to the witnesses.”

Mrs. Renay stepped forward and introduced herself with the bearing of someone taking charge. “After Miss Wright discovered the body, Ronald Dempsey and Mr. Goodall went to see if he needed an ambulance. Miss Wright and I waited out here.”

The cop looked around. “Where's this Ronald? Is he inside?”

“He had an appointment. Seems like it couldn't wait.” She sniffed, making it clear she did not approve of his leaving. “But he left his business card so you can reach him if you need to.” She handed it to him.

The officer scowled. “He shouldn't have left. He should have known we'd want to talk to him.”

She nodded. “That's what we all told him.”

His eyes wandered over to me. “So you discovered the body. Can you recall what time it might have been?”

“I think around ten thirty.” I looked at Mrs. Renay for confirmation.

“That sounds about right,” she said. “It was only a few minutes past ten thirty when you ran through the main office.”

A second police car drove into the lot and, cringing, I recognized Officer Lombard as she stepped out. She came forward, her thumbs hooked on her belt.

“Why is it that every time there's a murder around here, you're sure to be involved?” she asked. I felt my blood simmering. So it was going to be like that, was it? Let's just say that Officer Lombard and I had a bit of history.

“I think ‘involved' is a strong word to use, considering all I did was find the body and call the police.”

“But, you have to admit, you sure have a knack for finding dead bodies.” Her tone was only slightly less contentious.

I cracked a tiny smile. “You're beginning to sound like my mother. But I'd say it's more a case of really bad luck rather than a skill. Believe me—I would rather somebody else had found him.” I shuddered, remembering the bloody scene.

“Hope you guys don't mind,” she said to the other officers. “But I'm taking Della with me.” We walked in the direction the ambulance men had just taken. The city employees who had gathered by the entrance now moved out of the way to let us by.

“It's this way.” I headed down the hall toward Swanson's office and stopped outside the door. Inside, the two ambulance attendants and the mustached officer were bending over the body. I began shivering afresh. I wasn't the only one having some difficulty with the situation. Tom Goodall stood a few feet away, looking slightly jaundiced.

I dared a quick look at the victim, this time noticing the hole in the side of his head. My stomach lurched at the sweet metallic smell of blood. Suddenly the room tilted and I dropped into a crouch.

“Put your head down and take a deep breath,” Lombard said. She opened the side door, the same one I'd noticed earlier and a welcome breeze of fresh air wafted in.

“He's dead all right,” one of the attendants said. “Looks like he was hit over the head with that bookend.” I had seen the bookend, shaped like a horse's head. It looked like marble or granite, probably weighed a ton. I didn't turn to look.

“I called the coroner,” the cop said.

The two attendants stood. “No point in us sticking around. The coroner will want to see the body before it's picked up.”

“We need to get the forensic team over here,” the cop said, pulling out his cell phone.

“Did you see anyone coming out when you arrived?” Lombard asked.

“Not a soul. In fact, I remember noticing how quiet this area of the building is.”

She nodded. “The killer could just as easily have come in and out through that window.” I glanced in the direction she was looking. The window was on the back wall. It was slightly open.

She walked over. “See how easily it opens and closes?” She demonstrated. Then she leaned out, looking at the ground below. “There are footprints here. Steve?” she said to the other cop. “I want you to make sure the technicians get plaster casts of those imprints.”

He gave her a who-died-and-made-you-boss look, but he got his cell phone out, nonetheless, and made a second call.

“Della?” Lombard was looking at me strangely. “Are you all right? You're awfully pale.” I was surprised at how considerate she was being.

“It's the smell.”

“You still have to walk us through what happened when you came in this morning, before you discovered the body.”

Ah, that explained her attentive behavior. Her concern was not for me but for her investigation. I swallowed hard, and stood, grasping the doorframe for support. “I knocked a couple of times, and got no answer, so I tried the handle—”

“Why?” Lombard asked.

I shrugged. “I wanted to leave him a message. I was surprised when the door opened. I went over to the desk.” I gestured toward it. “I was looking for a piece of paper, something to write him a note. That's when I saw him on the floor.”

“What did you do then?”

“I turned around and got the hell out.”

The mustached officer had finished his call and was leaning out the open window, examining the ground. “It looks like somebody trampled the flower bed all along the side of the building. What do you want to bet those footsteps are the gardener's?”

Lombard threw him a nasty look and sniffed, as if insulted. “We can't jump to conclusions. When we get the casts, we'll get forensics to compare them to the gardener's shoes.”

“Forensics?” I said. “The police department has a forensics team?”

She reddened. “The department might bring in experts.” I seriously doubted that. Considering how little experience the local police had with murder, bringing in experts would be a good thing, but the town did not have that kind of a budget.

“There's another entrance right outside this office,” I said. And then seeing the suspicion in her eyes, I explained. “I happened to try it from outside, but it was locked.”

Officer Lombard stepped out and examined the door, pulling the edge of her sleeve over her fingertips, she gave the handle a try—opened it and closed it. “It latches automatically when you close it,” she noted.

“Somebody could have exited the building that way, but unless it had been left propped open, they would have had to come in by the main entrance,” I said. Lombard nodded slowly, still eyeing me with mistrust.

The young officer came over, opened the door and looked out. “Even if someone had left this way, there wouldn't necessarily be fingerprints on the door. They could have used gloves.”

Lombard regarded him with a scowl. “And now, whatever fingerprints might have been on the handle are covered with yours.”

He looked down at his hand. “Oh, shoot.” And then brightening up, he added, “But I didn't touch the outside handle.”

“But
I
did,” I said. This was followed by groans all around.

Officer Lombard turned to me. “You're sure you didn't notice anyone when you came in?”

“Not a soul. And I didn't hear anything either.” My eyes had automatically paused on the body as I said this. “Do you mind if I go back outside? I'm not feeling very well.”

At that moment Officer Harrison, Lombard's partner, stepped in, followed by Dr. Cook, the county coroner. I had met Dr. Cook before. He was a nice old man and too kind a person to be a coroner. The problem was that after a lifetime of caring for the town folk, the good doctor could never believe that any of his neighbors—as he called everyone who lived in the area—could be killers. As a result, he had in the past signed off on some deaths as natural, only for them to be identified as murders at a later date. He nodded to me and went straight to the victim.

“Did you touch anything?” Lombard asked me, narrowing her eyes.

“Not a thing. All I did was knock. When there was no answer, I tried the door and walked in. I got out of there as soon as I saw him.”

“So you touched the doorknob of his office, not just the outside knob?” she said.

“Er, yes, but that was all.”

She shook her head, sighing. “Okay. Let's get out of here. The tech guys should be here any minute.”

I headed down the hall, happy to get away from the sour smell of death.

“By the way. You never did tell me why you wanted to see the victim.”

“I had my shop remodeled and he'd just approved the occupancy permit. I came by to pick it up.”

One of the officers inside said, “There's a whole stack of permits right here.” He pointed to a pile of yellow forms on the desk.

“Can you see if mine is in there?” I asked, stepping forward. “I need it to open my shop.”

Officer Lombard planted herself in front of the door. “You can't have anything from in here. You should know that by now.”

“But my permit has nothing to do with his murder.”

The cop inside said, “I just went through and none of them are signed.”

Lombard stared at me through narrowed eyes. “Are you sure your permit was supposed to be ready when you came here?” Her expression said what her words didn't. She considered me a suspect.

My mouth dropped open. “You think I killed him because he refused me a permit? That's just nuts.” Lombard knew me well enough to know I was no killer. But looking at her now, I couldn't decide whether she was seriously considering me as a suspect or if she was just playing with my mind.

“Don't worry. You're not on my radar,” she said almost grudgingly. “But you know as well as I do that I have to ask you all these questions.” She paused, getting her notebook and pen from her pocket. “One more thing. Did you have any reason to be angry at Mr. Swanson?” she asked. I felt the blood rise to my face.

“No, of course not. I never had any dealings with him.”

Her eyes lasered into mine. “But you did have dealings with him. He had the power to allow you or refuse you your permit. Are you sure he'd approved it?” It sounded to me as if she was intent on pinning this murder on me. Her tone was sounding more and more accusing by the second.

I met her gaze straight on. “This is crazy, and I don't have to listen to this. Unless I'm under arrest, you can't force me to stay here.”

“Hold on a second. I still have a couple of questions. Are you sure you didn't see anyone leave the building?” she asked, her tone less accusatory.

“I already told you twice that I didn't.”

“What about in the parking lot?”

All at once I remembered the car that had almost smashed into my Jeep. “You're right. I
did
see someone, or rather, a car. It was a small silver hatchback.”

“Silver? That's not much of a description. Half the cars in Belmont are that color. What about the make and model?”

“Sorry. I couldn't tell the difference between one manufacturer and another.”

“What about the driver then?” She didn't sound as if she believed me one bit.

“I couldn't describe him. It all happened too fast. One second he was about to crash into me, and then I swerved and he flashed by. All I saw was someone wearing sunglasses and a light blue baseball cap.”

“So what you're telling me is that you saw some mystery person speed by in a car you can't describe. I suppose you want me to believe the reason he was in such a hurry is because he was running from the scene of the crime? Am I right?” Now she was mocking me. Still, I answered her seriously.