Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 02 - The Appropriate Way (13 page)

Tim asked Sheriff Woods, “When you questioned Peter Masters did you come across anything suspicious?”

Sally answered for him. “Clue number eight, Enid told Tim, Matilda, and Geraldine that Bret was having an affair with her.”

“You said you didn’t believe it, at the time,” Tim said.

Sally throat and mouth went suddenly dry. She sipped her tepid coffee again and frowned. Sheriff Woods motioned for the waitress to bring another hot cup of coffee. “Even though, he killed John,” Sally managed. “I don’t believe Bret could cheat on his wife.”

“Ouch,” Tim said.

“Matilda’s a very manipulative woman,” Sally said. “But you admitted, you were in error.”

The waitress arrived. “I
microwaved the cup, before I poured in fresh coffee.”

Sally tucked on the girl’s apron. “Wait a minute.” She dug in her purse and slipped the girl a folded twenty dollar bill. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

Tim said. “Why did Enid insist Bret was having an affair with her?”

“Good question,” Sheriff Woods said. “A very effective blackmailing ploy? Probably worked on most of the citizens of
Wayne.”

Sally nodded. “The addresses on the thank-you notes and Mrs.
Sederbush’s list of license plates establishes the facts.” The waitress waved a thank-you, after she unfolded the money.

“How many unsolved clues are left?” Tim asked.

“Number two is not solved,” Sheriff Woods said. “Peter Masters needs to clear up a few things.”

“Number ten, January 3
rd
, Bret shoots John. But why.” Sally finished her coffee for once. “I’m not even sure Bret would have aimed the gun at John, if John hadn’t lunged for him.”

“Do you think Bret meant I ruined his marriage?” Tim asked. “Or you?”

“Initially, I thought Bret meant you, but my snooping around probably prompted someone to tell Bret about Matilda. I thought about letting you two handle the case. If stopping my involvement in the case was the reason for upsetting Bret; it almost worked.”

“We have established some of the circumstances surrounding Bret before he committed murder,” Sheriff Woods said.

Tim nodded his head. “He visited Enid, three days before the movers shipped most of her belongings to France.”

“Who was threatening whom?” Sally asked.

“Bret lawyered up,” Sheriff Woods said. “I assume we’ll find out at Bret’s trial Enid pushed him into a corner, or at least his family’s reputation was about to suffer.”

“But Bret said,” Sally said looking at her notes. “Number eleven, January 3
rd
, Bret said, ‘You ruined my marriage,’ before the gun went off.”

“Matilda claimed Bret only loved their castle,” Tim said. “She even kidded if the castle hadn’t been part of the marriage deal, she’d probably still be single.”

“We know what evil the love of money can produce between people,” Sally said to Sheriff Woods, who agreed by pounding the table. Sally read the last clue to them, “Number eleven, January ninth, the butler. J K. Reeves signed the moving contract. Why? Unsolved.”

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By nine in the morning the snow was four inches thick, but the salt trucks were efficiently ridding the roads of the hazardous conditions. Sheriff Woods, Tim and Sally drove north on
Dunham Road, rehearsing the possible evidence they might find at the Armstrongs’ Castle.

“Will Matilda be there?” Tim worried.

“You handle yourself all right around her.” Sheriff Woods complimented him. “But I think she’ll be with her folks at the Montgomery’s.”

“If she is there,” Sally said, “I can question her about why she asked
Enid to meet her at her mother’s house. Was she trying to cover up for her mother.”

“The list of people who dropped in on
Enid and lived in Wayne is pretty long,” Tim said. “It’s not a crime to pay blackmail, is it?”

“Perpetrating a felonious act?” Sheriff Woods said aloud.

“But blackmailing is a punishable crime,” Sally said, from the backseat of the cruiser, “as is murdering the blackmailer.”

“I’ll search Bret’s room.” Sheriff Woods said. “Tim, go through the butler’s things. We sent out an international search for him.”

“Did you contact French Seaways?” Sally asked.

Tim answered. “Officer Caldwell said the crates were off-loaded in
France. They were transferred to a mover based in Rome. She’s following up to find the crates’ final destination.”

“Interpol might need to be included in the search for J. K. Reeves,” Sally said.

“You keep insisting the butler did it.” Sheriff Woods laughed.

“I suspect he’s sitting somewhere in
France or Italy, counting out the money Enid earned by blackmailing half the village of Wayne.” Sally hoped they were getting close to answering all her questions.

“He didn’t seem evil to me,” Tim said.

“You were just happy he disappeared during your affair with Matilda,” Sally reminded him. Tim nodded his head. “Sorry,” Sally said. “That was an unnecessary comment.”

“Nevertheless,” Tim said. “Facts are facts.

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Dunham Castle, Wayne

Four inches of snow covered the circular drive in front of the Dunham Castle. Hundred-year-old oaks and evergreens bordered the extensive grounds. Fresh snow caressed their fronds and lined their limbs, accentuating the beauty of the trees. Yellowed rough stones of the gothic walls reached toward the glistening snow on the spired roofs of the top windows, on the round caps of the three towers, and on the slopes of the mansard roof. Long icicles hung at the edges, picking up light from the brightening cloud cover. Larger than usual flakes of snow, proclaiming white innocence, drifted down on the haunting, lonely scene.

One set of tracks plowed through two of the four inches of snow before the squad car crunched up the drive. When Sheriff Woods got out of the cruiser, he examined the trampled snow up the steps to the front door. “A woman drove away about an hour ago.”

“Heap big Indian guide.” Sally surprised herself by teasing.

Sheriff Woods grinned. “I’m glad you’re back to your old ornery self.”

“Aren’t you going to miss us?” Tim blushed furiously and added, “if you return to Ann Arbor.”

Sally adjusted her purse. “First things first. Who is going to get us past the front door?”

Tim knocked uselessly and then opened the door with his key.

“Convenient, right?” Sheriff Woods winked at Sally.

“Will the search hold up in court?”

“Tim was given the key by the owner.”

“Not for this,” Sally said. “Be a shame to lose any evidence on a technicality.” Nevertheless, Sally crossed the threshold. “Time’s a wasting.”

“Check every room.” Sheriff Woods opened one of the two evidence toolboxes he carried into the house. After he put on plastic gloves, he pointed to the other box. “Yours is over there, Sally.”

Tim went up the main staircase, after donning gloves from his case.

“I’ll take the downstairs,” Sally said.

Sheriff Woods followed Tim upstairs. “We’ll help you, when we get done up here.” His voice bounced around the circular entryway.

Sally headed for the library. The evidence case was too heavy to lug around, so she set the metal box on the couch, which faced a long desk. On the right hand corner of the desk, an open dictionary was propped open on a sandalwood stand. She read the page headings, just in case they were relevant. ‘
lacriminal sac,’ something to do with tears, nothing about criminals. If AA allowed belief in psychic phenomena, Sally would assume John was near her. ‘lady, lady apple and lagena,’ were the other headings. ‘Lagena,’ meant some part of a fish’s body mammals shared. Sally wasn’t interested enough to search further.

The red leather bindings of the books with titles embossed in gold did tempt her curiosity. She excused her lack of concentration on the case by imagining a letter might fall out of any of the books she chose to open. The entire wall behind the desk was dedicated to war. Wars throughout history were captured in a plethora of printed matter. Famous battles, generals and spies with more than one book named for them lined the shelves. Behind the couch, a freestanding, book case with glass pull-up doors held over a hundred books about
Lincoln and the Civil War.

The narrower shelves on either side of the entrance were filled with first editions of novels. Trying to focus like a detective on a case, Sally lifted out
Anatole Frances’ ‘Under the Rose.’ No letter or stray notes were tucked inside its covers even though the title promised secrets were kept there.

Nonfiction books on architecture and decorating subjects faced the entrance. Their covers were not leather. A colorful array of paper book jackets brightened an otherwise dull gathering of books. Were the books purchased as they stood on the shelves when the castle changed hands, or had Matilda or Bret collected them.

She went back to the library desk to examine its drawers. Matilda used the desk to write invitations, greeting cards and thank you notes. An expensive array of stationary filled the drawers. One drawer held a card index with addresses and phone numbers. Sally checked, but no cards listed the names of Kathy, Enid Krimm or J. K. Reeves, for that matter.

Thinking she soaked up enough literary vibes, she headed for the dining room. She ran her hand under the edge of the mahogany table, not expecting to find anything, but checking nonetheless. She pulled the floral portraits off the wall and looked at the back of the canvases for clues. She couldn’t summon the energy necessary to replace them or up-end the chairs, but she thought about it. Instead of tackling the kitchen, she chose to look around the visitor’s parlor where Reeves ushered John and Sally on their first visit.

John’s fur hat lay abandoned on the green-and-white silk couch. She clutched it to her. “Help me,” she prayed to the Lord, or to any remaining force of soul which might allow her husband to guide her.

A drop leaf desk, with two filled bookshelves occupying its lower section, was the only piece of furniture in the room except for the upholstered chairs and marble end tables. Before opening the lid of the desk, Sally looked out the side window of the room. An unobstructed view of the front stoop could let anyone in the room see who was entering the house. A butler could easily choose not to appear in the entranceway. Reeves could avoid meeting Tim on his illicit visits.

So the desk might contain the butler’s belongings. She returned to the library to retrieve the evidence case. After tearing one plastic glove on her diamond wedding ring, she opened the desk’s only drawer.

Travel brochures and train schedules were jammed to overflowing. She let down the lid of the desk onto the open drawer. A small, gold framed picture of Bret confused her for a moment. She thought perhaps the desk was Matilda’s. Bret would not keep a picture of himself on his own desk. Would the butler keep a picture of his boss?

Each vertical section of the desk held paid receipts addressed to Reeves. “Bingo.” Sally filled cloth evidence bags with the material.

After all the dividers were emptied, she reached up inside the desk. A shelf between the top and the first lengthwise panel held yellow vaccination cards for Reeves and Enid
Krimm. Enid’s useless passport was also on the hidden shelf. Sally put the cards into a plastic evidence bag and ran out of the room. “I found it,” she cried up the staircase. “The butler did it!”

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Before Sheriff Woods heard Sally’s cry, he was congratulating himself on his own success. The central suite of rooms at the top of the stairs contained a large sitting room. A fireplace flanked by filled bookcases vied for attention with the back wall, where a two-story high window invited a view of slumbering gardens and a fountain layered with snow.

Bret’s bedroom to the right of the suite was decorated with reds and deep browns. The fireplace was copper. Sheriff Woods was tempted to test the winged back leather chair and its footstool, but headed for the mirrored wall of closets. He rummaged through each pocket of Bret’s suits, throwing the clothes onto the four-poster bed to facilitate his search. He found no reason to waste time by re-hanging the garments of a murderer.

Bret was a fastidious man. No scraps of paper, receipts or coins were left in his pockets. Maybe the butler did do it. Reeves cleaned up after his boss. Sheriff Woods caught a reflection in the closet mirror of his own smile. Sally, she could turn a stone to butter. He secretly hoped she would stay in town. But if another interesting case didn’t appeal to her, he was pretty sure she would be off to
Ann Arbor again. Tim was right. They would miss her.

Bret’s dresser drawers yielded nothing of interest. Was the gun Bret used to kill John even his? Something else to check on. Maybe Sally was right. Maybe someone instigated John’s death by revealing Matilda’s infidelity.

He wanted to be thorough, so he knelt down and poked his head under the leather dust ruffle of Bret’s bed. He pulled out a long white box. Expecting to find a spare blanket, he opened the box. Instead, letters filled the box. A pink diary, strange knick-knacks and pieces of rocks, leaves and twigs were also stuffed in the box. He recognized the paraphernalia as a lover’s stash. Tim’s name was written on the bottom of a birthday card. Bret found, or was shown, Matilda’s personal keepsakes. Fingerprint experts needed to go over the evidence.