String of Lies (5 page)
Jo’s cell phone rang. She knew who it was before checking the caller ID. “I haven’t heard anything more yet, Carrie,” Jo said, answering, and stepping away from the red-nosed patrolman.
“Jo, I’m just so worried. And it’s awful of me, I know, for feeling worse about what this means to Dan—and us—than I do about that poor man.”
“Carrie, you’ve never even met Parker Holt, right? Of course you should feel that way. But try not to, anyway. I mean, don’t worry. We don’t know what exactly happened yet. Holt might have simply tripped on his own shoelaces. Or maybe he had a heart attack. Do you know if he—oh, wait.” Jo caught sight of someone heading to the garage side entrance. “I think Xavier’s here. Youngish, with a mustache, wears a dark baseball-type jacket?”
“That sounds like him. Poor Sylvia. She’ll be worried to death. I should give her a call.”
“Why don’t you do that.” Jo knew Carrie would wring her hands less if she focused more on Sylvia. “I’ll call you if I learn anything.”
“Mrs. McAllister?”
Jo turned to see a sandy-haired uniformed officer. “I’ve got to go,” Jo said to Carrie and hung up.
“Lieutenant Morgan would like to talk to you.”
Jo pocketed her cell phone and followed the officer into the house. He led her through the foyer, turning left, and Jo trailed behind, glancing over at the living room on the right. She saw no sign of the woman she’d assumed to be Holt’s wife but did hear muffled voices coming from somewhere farther back, possibly the kitchen. Agitated voices.
The living room, from her quick look, had exuded an air of quiet opulence—polished cherry, brocades in bright colors. The door that the sandy-haired officer opened for her, however, led to a smaller room with a cozier feel. Plump armchairs flanked a round table that held a reading lamp and a small pile of books. Built-in shelves were filled with more books, framed photos, and a small television. A Queen Anne-style desk took up one end of the narrow room, and behind it sat Lieutenant Morgan, looking, Jo thought, less than comfortable on the delicate chair.
“Mrs. McAllister,” he said, greeting her with a half-rise, “please have a seat.”
Since the only choice was one of the oversized chairs, Jo took the nearest one and perched on the edge of its puffy cushion as she tried to meet Morgan’s gaze in a businesslike way. The chair’s softness, however, swallowed her and she sank backward ungracefully.
“Sorry about that,” the lieutenant said, as Jo struggled. “This was the only available room with any privacy.”
Jo nodded, and found that once she gave into it, the chair was amazingly comfortable. Images of it replacing her own broken-springed sofa ran wistfully through her head.
Morgan got down to business. “Tell me how you happened to come here tonight.” He flipped pages in a notebook, which, Jo was sure, held the information she had already given to the first responding officer. She hadn’t seen Morgan for several weeks, and once again it unnerved her how the sight of him brought flashes of Mike to mind, though there was little actual resemblance between the two men beyond their dark coloring and build.
Jo remembered having spotted the lieutenant during a break at the Abbotsville Country Club’s craft show last fall. She had watched him then, meeting an attractive woman for lunch and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. What did that kiss indicate? she had wondered at the time, and continued to wonder. Was this woman still in his life?
Jo suddenly became aware of how she must look, knowing how she tended to run her hands through her own dark hair under times of stress. And her nose, she was sure, must be as red as the patrolman’s outside. But as Lieutenant Morgan looked up expectantly, and a bit impatiently, Jo straightened up, annoyed with herself for letting her thoughts wander so frivolously. This was not, after all, a social visit. She launched into her answer to Morgan’s question, explaining about her unsuccessful attempts to reach Holt all day, and finally coming to his house.
“So he wasn’t expecting you?”
“No. I thought my chances of talking with him were better if I caught him by surprise.”
“But Dan Brenner knew you would be coming.”
“Yes, as I said, Dan gave me the address and told me when Mr. Holt would likely be here.”
“Did Mr. Ramirez also know you were coming?”
Jo thought it an odd question. “I don’t know. He might have heard Dan talking on the phone to me, I suppose. Or Dan might have mentioned it to him. Why?”
“Tell me what you found when you arrived at the house.” Jo described knocking at the front door and eventually spotting light at the basement window.
“You didn’t see or hear signs of anyone in the house at that point?”
“No, which is why I went around, looking for another entrance. I thought maybe Mr. Holt hadn’t heard my knocking on the front door if he was in the basement.”
“Uh-huh. And then what?”
Jo told about the side door moving open at her touch, then walking in and seeing Holt at the bottom of the stairs.
“And did you go down those stairs?”
“No. I called 9-1-1. On the slim chance he was alive, I didn’t think I should try to do anything in case moving him at all would be dangerous. But he looked dead.”
“Yes, I guess you, better than some, would pick up on that.”
Jo had been expecting a comment like that. In the past she might have bristled, but now she searched for a glint of humor lurking in the lieutenant’s eyes, and found it.
“Believe me, it’s not something I’m happy to have expertise in,” she replied. “What happened? Did he trip? Hit his head? I didn’t see blood.”
“We’re still looking into that.” The veil of officialdom slipped back down, covering the glint, and Morgan returned to his notebook. “Well, that about covers everything, Mrs. McAllister.”
“You
can
call me Jo, by now. I’d say it’s been long enough.”
can
call me Jo, by now. I’d say it’s been long enough.”
Morgan opened his mouth to respond when a patrolman stuck his head in the door after a single knock.
“Excuse me, sir, but the mayor wants—”
“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
Morgan stood and came around the desk, and, as Jo worked at climbing out of her soft chair, held out a helpful hand.
“I thought I recognized that man as Warren Kunkle,” Jo said, taking Morgan’s hand gratefully and pulling herself upright. “What does the mayor have to do with this?”
Morgan guided her out the door.
“Thank you for your help,” he said, adding with a small smile, “Jo.” He opened the front door for her and stepped back. “And Mrs. Holt is Warren Kunkle’s niece.”
“Oh,” Jo said, as the door closed behind her.
Jo left the Holt property with some difficulty, maneuvering her Toyota past the clusters of vehicles clogging the drive, grateful that the simplicity of the Holt’s landscaping allowed her to veer onto the hard, snow-dusted ground as needed. Once back on the street, she sighed with relief, glad to pull away from the flashing lights and crackling radios, wondering how those whose job it was to regularly function under such conditions could bear it. The lieutenant seemed as calm and in control as he always had, which in the past had often been maddening but tonight felt comforting. It brought back memories of how Mike had been able to soothe her far simpler worries with his usual reasonableness.
Carrie’s worries, however, Jo quickly reminded herself, were not so simple, and she gave her friend a call before heading over to her place. Carrie was waiting at the door as Jo pulled up.
“Charlie’s sound asleep on his pain medication in the family room, and Amanda’s finishing her homework upstairs,” Carrie said. “You probably haven’t had any dinner yet, right? Come on back. I’ve been keeping a pot of stew warm on the stove.”
Jo peeled off her jacket and gloves as they walked through Carrie’s work-in-progress living room whose sparse sheet-covered furniture shared space with paint cans and tools. Never waiting on ceremony in her long-time friend’s home, she deposited her things on a chair before entering the warm, welcoming kitchen. Carrie lifted the lid on a large pot and stirred at its contents, releasing aromas that set Jo’s mouth to watering. As she dished out the stew, Carrie peppered Jo with questions, most of which Jo was unable to answer.
“I’m sorry, Carrie. Lieutenant Morgan was playing it very close to the vest. All I managed to learn from him is that Parker Holt’s wife is the niece of Mayor Kunkle. I saw Kunkle arrive while I was waiting.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten she was his niece.” Carrie set Jo’s steaming bowl in front of her on a bright placemat. She frowned. “I wonder what his coming there means to all this.”
“Probably nothing,” Jo said, tucking into her food. “I’m sure he was simply there to offer support and comfort to his niece. She apparently wasn’t home when this all happened. I saw a woman who I presume was her arrive shortly after Kunkle did.”
Jo speared a gravy-soaked potato chunk, then asked, “Did you talk with Sylvia? How is she?”
“She’s nervous, doesn’t like the idea of Xavier being questioned by police, even though I assured her it was just routine, that they had to talk to everybody with any connection to the situation at the house so that they can write up all the proper reports.” Carrie’s brave tone faltered as she sat down across from Jo. “But I just don’t understand what’s taking so long. Dan’s been there over two hours now. What could he have to tell them that would take more than five minutes?”
“Carrie.” Jo set down her fork to reach for her friend’s hand. “He’s probably waiting all this time for them to get around to him. All things official, by definition, move at glacier speed.”
“I know, I know. I’m just so afraid that if it somehow reflects badly on Dan’s work, it could damage his business. What if they say he must have left something on the stairs, an extension cord stretched across it, or something? And that’s the reason Parker Holt tumbled down them?”
“They won’t, because Dan would never do that. And he would double-check to make sure Xavier didn’t either.”
“Then why call Xavier over there at all?”
Jo frowned. “I don’t know. And Morgan brought up Xavier in his questions to me, which struck me as odd. Something about whether Xavier knew that I was planning to come to the house.”
Carrie leaned her face into her hands, worried eyes looking at Jo over her fingertips. She seemed about to say something when a voice from behind Jo startled them both.
“Mom? Aunt Jo?”
“Charlie! Did we wake you?” Carrie jumped up from her chair to go to her son. “How do you feel? Do you need another pain pill?”
Charlie shook his head, looking only half-awake, his hair spiking in several different directions, his too-small robe drooping over pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.
“Is that stew? Can I have some?”
“Of course! I didn’t want to wake you when Amanda and I had supper.” Carrie bustled over to the stove. “Shall I bring it to you in the recliner?” she asked, filling a fresh bowl.
“Nah, I’m okay.” Charlie shuffled over to the kitchen table, and Jo hurried to pull out a chair for him, which he eased onto in slow motion.
“Looks like you got yourself out of shoveling any snow for the next few weeks,” Jo said.
Charlie grimaced. “I think I’d rather shovel snow.”
“Yeah, I would too.”
Carrie put his supper before him, and Jo watched Charlie work at getting as much food into his stomach with the least possible amount of movement. It didn’t look easy. As the level of food lowered, though, Charlie’s eyes grew increasingly clear. Eventually he released his fork and leaned slowly back in his chair.
“So, what’s going on?” he asked.
Getting only surprised silence from the two women across from him, he continued. “Aunt Jo’s here, Dad isn’t, and Mom, you look pretty darn worried.”
“I’m not . . .” Carrie began to protest, then stopped. “Well, yes, I am, but I’m probably just being silly. There was an accident tonight. Mr. Holt—the man whose basement Dad’s been working on?—took a bad fall. Aunt Jo found him, and Dad’s over there right now talking with the police who are trying to figure out just what happened.”
“A bad fall. You mean a really bad one, right? Not like mine?”
“No, not like yours. Mr. Holt is dead.”
“Whooo!” Charlie thought a moment. “So—what? They’re thinking it might be Dad’s fault or something?”
“We don’t know what they’re thinking right now, Charlie,” Jo said. “As your mom said, I discovered Mr. Holt lying at the bottom of the stairs, but I have no idea what happened. They have to talk to everyone, and it all takes time. We’ll just have to wait.”
Charlie nodded. His gaze wandered about the kitchen, but Jo had a feeling he wasn’t thinking about what more he might find to eat. This was a fifteen-year-old who already had experience with police investigation and violent death, though thankfully only at arm’s length. She sincerely hoped that remained to be the case. But having one’s father being questioned on the circumstances of his present employer’s death had the potential of bringing that arm in closer than she cared to see.
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