Overdue for Murder (Pecan Bayou) (17 page)

"Vanessa was always very competitive, and we were pretty sure she pulled out one of the leg supports on Pattie's display, making herself the winner by default. Pattie had by far the best creative cooking there, but once her table collapsed she was out of the competition. Vanessa blamed it on my son and cousin and ... we exchanged words."

"Who was standing there when the table collapsed?"

"My son and cousin."

"So she was correct?"

"She was and she wasn't. They leaned on the table, but she had set it up so that any weight on it would make it fall."

"So you say," he said, writing down my words.

"So I know." It was easy to see whose side he was on.

"Then you had another argument with her at the library?"

"She accused of me of making the whole incident up in front of all of the people waiting to hear the speakers in the library. What she was saying wasn't true." I felt the back of my neck heating up.

"How angry did this make you, Betsy?" he asked.

"Not angry enough to bash her in the head with a candlestick."

"Can you account for your whereabouts the afternoon before the second author's meeting?"

"Yes, I can. I was with my son. He was trying to break a world record. I left him with my father before I came to the meeting."

"And you never left here between the hours of 3 to 6?"

"Nope. Just ask Zach."

"And how old is he?"

"Eight."

*****

As the morning progressed after Chief Wilson left, a feeling a dread rushed over me. Did I need a lawyer? Could this really be happening? I started looking through my address book heaping with business cards I had stapled onto the pages. I jumped when Rocky Whitson knocked at the door. I didn't even know he knew where I lived.

"Hi Betsy, can I come in?"

"Sure. Is everything alright?"

"Oh, um, well ..." he stammered

"Come in." He pressed on the squeaky handle of my back screen door and then placed his hands in the pockets of his brown corduroy pants. I pulled a chair out for him at my kitchen table.

"We just received word of a letter that was left at the library for Martha Hoffman. It was a threat against her life."

"You're kidding. Too many library fines?"

"Betsy, I'm being serious, now. The letter was pretty graphic about how somebody was going to do in Miss Hoffman before the week was out."

"Do you think this is somehow connected to the Vanessa Markham killing?"

"Pretty sure of it."

"Why? Do you think it might be from Vanessa's killer?"

"I certainly hope not. It was signed by you ..."

"By me?" I interrupted.

" ... and Martha Hoffman is dead."

"She's dead?"

"They found her just an hour ago. Your dad was busy with the crime scene and asked me to come and talk to you. She was killed at her house, strangled with her own bathrobe belt. It looks like whoever killed her, she let into the house. There was a second note at her home, signed by you."

"And the note said I killed her?"

Rocky tried to remain calm, probably in effort to keep me calm. This was becoming a nightmare. It seemed like more and more things were happening and happening to me. "Yes, they found the note on her desk in her home office. It was typed, but signed by you."

"That is the absolutely stupidest thing I've ever heard," I said. "If I was going to murder someone, I sure wouldn't leave a signed note."

"Well, the police would tell you that people who murder other people aren't always the sharpest in the knife drawer," Rocky said.

I grimaced. "Strangled. Martha Hoffman was never nice to me. She never got my name right, and she belittled what I do for a living, but she didn't deserve that." This also proved to me that whoever killed her also killed Vanessa and was now using me as his or her scapegoat.

"What were you doing last night? Do you have an alibi?"

"Last night I was here with Zach," I said. "He was recovering from cheesy dog poisoning, remember?"

"Can you prove that?"

"Sure, Zach can tell you."

Rocky drummed his fingers on the table. "What about after he fell asleep?"

"First of all, I would never leave my child alone, and second, I didn't do it."

"I'm just saying these are the questions the police will ask you."

*****

Two hours later, I found myself sitting at a gray folding table in the Pecan Bayou Police Department across from Arvin Wilson.

"So you're saying you didn't send this letter?" Wilson asked.

"Uh, no. If I were going to threaten to kill someone, do you think I'd be dumb enough to sign the letter?"

"I have no idea what you might be dumb enough to do, Betsy."

I heard a knock on the two-way mirror behind the chief and could pretty well tell that had to be my own father.

"Listen," said Chief Wilson, now getting exasperated having to deal with a real case and a real suspect, "I want to believe you, Betsy. For goodness' sakes, you're the daughter of one of my best men, but every time I turn around this case leads me back to you."

"I didn't threaten Martha Hoffman with a note, and I certainly didn't kill her," I said.

"But you did have an argument with her just a few days ago."

"Yes, and then someone put something in my coffee cup after Martha told me to place it out of my own reach. What about that one? I ran into a tree and ruined my car. I didn't see you dragging her in on that one."

"She was questioned about the matter. But that makes you angry because maybe you don't feel like she was given the same treatment as you?"

"I didn't write that note. For some reason, somebody is setting me up to look guilty. Maybe the killer wrote that note because I was your main suspect anyway. What a way to assure not being caught – pin another murder on me. Have you thought about that?"

"Let me read the note to you," he said:

Dear Martha,

I know you put a sedative in my cup the other day. For that you must die. If you don't think I can do this, then you are wrong. You'd better keep an eye out behind you, Martha dear. You're dead.

"How do you keep an eye out behind you?" I asked.

"Is this your signature?" The chief pointed to the bottom of the note. It sure looked like I signed it.

"Sort of."

"So you admit to writing this note?"

"Nope, and until you can prove I wrote this note, this interview is over." I rose from the table and was greeted at the door by my father. He took me by the elbow.

"Thanks, Arvin. From here on out Betsy will be sharing information with you through her lawyer. Just to be on the safe side, you know. We'll have the handwriting expert from the county check out the signature. I'm sure it will show it isn't Betsy."

My dad propelled me toward the outer door of the police station. "Good job in there, Betsy," he said. "You need to know that innocent people have been known to go to jail in Texas and have ended up with a death sentence. We need to work fast and smart to find out who is setting you up."

We walked out of the police station into the beautiful midday sun. The air felt thinner and cleaner out here somehow.

"We'll get you out of this darlin', I promise."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

As we started for my car, George Beckman pulled in to park in front of us. I couldn't believe my timing. Barry was sitting in the backseat.

I had rehearsed what I would say to Barry for the last eight years, but right now I found I was at a loss for words. I think I knew more what I wanted to do than say, and it wasn't give him a basket from the Pecan Bayou Welcome Wagon.

George Beckman got out of the car, stretched and then opened Barry's door. As he pulled him out of the car by the elbow, he smiled and they chatted as if they had been buddies on a long car trip. Barry came out and looked up at the building, shading his eyes from the sun. He looked so different from the handsome young man who had walked out into the night so many years ago. He now had a dark brown beard. It was well trimmed, but his hair had thinned some on the top, taking away some of his boyish look. His midsection was just a little bit thicker than the well-toned abs he had left with. George held him by the elbow as they came up the stairs to the glass doors. I stood back, the pressure of my father's hand the only thing keeping me from screaming out what a bastard I thought he was.

Barry passed by us on the steps, and when his eyes met mine, he immediately looked down. The joking manner he had shared with George suddenly vanished. He didn't want to look at me. He didn't want to talk to me. He just wanted to walk on by and forget I even existed. That is what he did best, after all.

"Hello, Barry. Glad to see you finally got back. How's that cold of yours?" I said. He had told me he had a terrible cold and was going out for cough drops. I had no idea the closest drug store would be in El Paso. Barry didn't answer me at first but then turned to George. "I don't have to talk to her. Put me in my cell or whatever it is this podunk police department has."

"This podunk police department has a state-of-the-art holding cell that'll keep your ass for as long as we need to." My dad's anger was rising.

"You got nothing on me, old man."

"Try abandonment, back child support and Lord knows what else you've been up to in your business dealings."

"Did you get notified about the divorce?" I asked.

"Who cares?" he sneered.

"Now Barry," said George, "don't be rude. Betsy here was just asking you a question."

"I still don't have to talk to her."

His words hurt. This was the real Barry. This was the kind of guy who would leave a pregnant wife with a stack of bills.

"You son of a bitch." I started toward him and felt my dad pull me back. Chief Wilson came out of the police station and registered surprised seeing me again so soon and yelling at somebody else besides his murder victim. "Is there a problem out here, Lieutenant Kelsey?"

"No, no problem, Chief. I would like for you to meet my ex-son in law, Barry Livingston."

The chief grabbed his gun belt around his round middle and smiled and extended a hand. It wasn't until Barry put out his hand that the chief noticed he was being escorted by George. He pulled his hand back.

"We're looking at him for some fraud charges here in Pecan Bayou," said my dad.

"I see. Well, as long as everything is okay out here."

"Fine, just fine."

Chief Wilson stepped back into the building.

"Where's the kid?" asked Barry. He finally had something to say to me, and it was about the one thing I had left that he could take away.

"The kid's name is Zachary, and if I have it my way he will never lay eyes on you."

"Oh, yeah? If I have it my way I will take rightful ownership of MY son."

"That's enough," my father said. "Thanks, George. I'll take your prisoner from here. Why don't you head over to Benny's Barbecue and he can fix you up with a hot meal on the police department." George tipped his Stetson and turned back to his car.

"Betsy. You head home now. I'll call you later." My father took hold of Barry's arm to guide him to the holding cell. Barry turned toward me and looked me up and down.

"You're still looking good, Betsy. What's this? No ring? Probably hard to find another man like me."

I felt my skin crawl at his appraisal. The last thing I wanted was another man like Barry. At least now I knew what I was up against. Now I knew – even more important than clearing my name for murder, I would fight to the end to keep my son.

*****

When I returned home, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do first – call a lawyer or go into the witness protection program to get away from Barry. I actually entertained thoughts of packing my car, picking Zach up from Aunt Maggie's house and driving off to God knows where to start a new life. He had done it to me, why not do it to him?

Deciding that might be a little too drastic, I called Rune Jackson, one of the five lawyers in town. I didn't have to tell him much before he agreed to take on my case. He had dealt mainly with DUIs in his career, and this was his first murder case.

"Listen here now, Miss Betsy," he drawled, and I somehow knew he was sitting there with his boots up on his desk, his Stetson pitched back on his head. "I don't have any legal assistants here, so I'll be needin' you and your daddy to help me check the alibis of all the other suspects on the day Martha Hoffman was murdered."

"I'm sure my dad has some of that already."

"Yes, but we need to check on our own as well."

Later, as I helped Zach get ready for Little League practice, I told my dad about my lawyerin' up, as he would say.

"That's good. Has he done any murder cases before?" he said on the other end of the cell phone.

"Nothing like this. He said we needed to help him to check out the alibis of the other people who might have killed her. I have to tell you, I don't want to talk to Oscar Larry again. Who knows what he'll do."