Voice Mail Murder (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Her monitor gleamed with the lines of spectrographic data on the various suspects in what she was now calling the voice mail murder case. As she ran her cursor down the various samples of voices, she realized that they now had dozens of viable suspects. They could no longer maintain that the three mistresses who had left messages on the Coach’s cell phone were the only—or even—main suspects. Anyone who knew the man and who was aware that he was at the Shady Lane Motel that afternoon was a suspect—and that could be almost anyone.

It was late on Monday afternoon and she had spent the weekend pleasantly with Rocky. Her forehead was almost back to normal—only the vestiges of a blister remained, the vibrant colors that she had sported last week now subsiding.

As she ran her finger down the spectrograph lines for each of the suspect voices, she compared each to a list on her clipboard. My God, there are so many possibilities. So many individuals apparently had a motive or an opportunity to kill Coach Croft—and Skye Davis. But who, out of all of them, had both, and acted upon them?

She grouped the suspects mentally into categories. There was the family. The wife, Sheila Croft, was handicapped and ostensibly unable to get herself around, let alone injure or stab another person. At least, that’s what she appeared to be—and neither Pamela nor the police seemed to have any reason to doubt her condition. Pamela wasn’t certain if the woman could maneuver her wheelchair around or drive a car with handicapped attachments, but she guessed not from what she had seen of the woman at her home. Of course, it would seem that Sheila Croft had the most obvious of motives—a cheating husband, but her opportunity—and ability--to commit such a violent crime seemed unlikely.

Her daughters, however, were another story. The eldest, Elizabeth, seemed incensed about her father’s misbehavior and extremely protective of her mother. That was also the opinion she had secured about the young woman from Margaret Billings, the girl’s advisor. Elizabeth Croft was intelligent, resourceful, and highly motivated—but was that enough to prompt her to murder her own father, even if said father had caused her invalid mother such horrific shame and hurt? The younger daughter Emily seemed much less likely to initiate any aggression, but who knew what teenagers might do. She was at that delicate age when everything tended to be blown out of proportion—and her father’s philandering would certainly count as an embarrassing event.

The next group she looked at was Croft’s colleagues in the Athletic Department. Assistant Coach Jeff Dooley. The young man had an aggressive streak she had seen personally and the Coach’s death pushed him up the career ladder overnight. But would that be enough to cause him to commit murder and would he have known about his boss’s infidelities? The Coach’s long-time secretary Rosemary Ellis was also a candidate. Obviously she knew Croft well and was probably aware of his comings and goings, but did she know about his afternoon trysts or had he managed to hide this part of his life from her as she claimed? And if so, what would motivate the assistant to kill her employer? The cheerleading coach Hannah Schlegel was another possibility. She was an attractive young woman and probably spent a lot of time around the Coach. Was she one of his former conquests—or a possible future one? Or was she siding with Jeff Dooley, in an effort to help the young man obtain the older coach’s job? Pamela had seen Dooley and Schlegel together and they seemed tight. Could they have committed the crime together?

She couldn’t ignore the mistresses themselves. Skye Davis was no longer around to defend herself and Pamela felt instinctively that she had not murdered the man. There was the testimony of her secretary regarding her return to work following her final meeting with the Coach—at a time before the coroner noted the Coach’s time of death. Also, the secretary Derlinda Washington had not noticed any unusual behavior on her boss’s part that day—unlikely if the woman had just killed her lover.

The second mistress, Abigail Prescott, was also an unlikely killer—unless she contracted a hit man—but that would seem unlikely as the police had indicated that the Coach probably knew his assassin as he let the person into the room and then promptly turned his back on the person. The police had verified Abigail Prescott’s statement that she had never even been to Reardon and that her only involvement with the Coach occurred in Boston during one of the team’s away games the previous spring. They, of course, had confirmed this when the woman had called Police Headquarters the day after Shoop had contacted her home and had spoken to her in the presence of her husband.

The only other mistress that remained a suspect was Charlene Terlinger. She was a resident of Reardon and could have followed Coach to his meeting with Skye Davis, waited for her to leave, then gone to the room and stabbed the Coach. To do this, Pamela realized, Charlene would have had to be following the Coach around for days waiting for him to meet with one of his mistresses. As it was evident from the chronology of the voice mail messages, she would be following him for quite some time as the Coach did not indulge in these afternoon affairs with any regularity. The first recorded voice mail messages from Charlene had occurred, according to Charlene, in January. The second voice messenger—Abigail Prescott—left her message in February. The final message left by Skye Davis had occurred just a few weeks ago on the day of the murder—in early September. So, Pamela figured, over the course of seven months, Coach Croft had had relationships with three women—once with Abigail in Boston, and twice each with Charlene and Skye. That was five times—out of seven months—less than once a month. Of course, she didn’t know what he had done before January or if he’d had any meetings that had not been recorded for posterity on his cell phone’s voice mail. It was possible that at the end of the year, he had cleared his voice mail and that many other messages from the previous year had been sent. For all she knew, there were more mistresses than just these three. If there were, unless those women came forward, no one would ever know.

There was obviously much they didn’t know about Coach and his mistresses. There were also the sons of these mistresses. Ricky Terlinger, Demetrius Davis, and Will Prescott. The interviews of these young men were heart-breaking for Pamela to listen to—especially that of Demetrius Davis—whose mother had been killed by the same person who had murdered the Coach—they assumed. She had listened to these three young men speak and she simply couldn’t detect any hint that any of them had known about their mother’s involvement with the man. She also remembered back to her conversation with Jesse Portillo—the young football player who wanted to register for her Psychology of Language course. He too seemed incredibly saddened and shocked about his Coach’s tragic death. Could any of these three young football players have discovered what was happening between their Coach and their mother and have taken it upon themselves to seek vengeance upon the man for their mother’s sake?

How could a man who was so devious and so venal in his behavior had received such universal adoration from virtually everyone around him? The only person who seemed furious at the man for his actions seemed to be his eldest daughter, but she seemed an unlikely candidate for a killer. Pamela realized that she would have had opportunity—actually, almost all of the suspects had opportunity in that most of them could not account for their whereabouts during the time of the murder. Sheila Croft claimed to be at home, but it was only her word because both of her daughters had claimed to have been at school. The youngest daughter Emily was in school until 3:30 p.m. and after that she said she was driving around running errands. The oldest daughter Elizabeth claimed to be on campus in the library during the afternoon and early evening working on a paper. Neither of the daughters had anyone who could corroborate their stories for the later part of the day. Both girls had their own cars and came and went at will.

Jeff Dooley said he was in his office—where he usually was most afternoons, waiting for practice which typically began around four o’clock. No player came to visit him that particular afternoon so there was no way to verify his statement. Even so, Dooley showed up for practice at four o’clock and took over for the absent coach. Likewise, Rosemary Ellis said that she was working at her desk the entire afternoon but that no one came in as she remembered. Again, there was no way to verify her claim. Hannah Schlegel said she was on the football field—alone—during the early afternoon working out a new routine for her cheerleaders until Dooley arrived at four to start practice. Her squad of young women typically practiced at the same time as the football players and she said she wanted to be ready for them at that time. She worked on her own. No one saw her or claimed to be looking for her.

Abigail Prescott was in Boston on the day of the murder as was her husband. She had no contact with Coach Croft or her son during the afternoon. Charlene Terlinger was at work that day and her claim was verified by her employer—except for a brief break she took late in the afternoon around five to run an errand at a local drugstore. No one at the drugstore remembered her. The police doubted that she could have driven from the boutique in downtown Reardon where she worked to the Shady Lane Motel and back in the time that she took for her break.

Pamela mulled over all the information before her. She listened to all of the voices again—trying to hear something that someone might be hiding. She considered all of the additional information the police had gathered and how it impacted the case.

She glanced up and the shadows from the trees outside her windows floated over her curtains in a rolling pattern. It was starting to get dark earlier. She rolled her head around on her neck, carefully checking her forehead scar. It didn’t hurt, but she could still feel its presence. It served as a reminder to her to be careful. She looked back at her screen, using her mouse to scroll up and down through the voice prints. There were so many! So many suspects. Where they had originally thought they were only dealing with three suspects, the field had now opened up to dozens—and maybe even more, because they didn’t know for certain that they had included all the possible individuals who might have wanted to kill Coach Wade Croft.

The only thing she knew for certain was that something she had done—or said—had frightened the killer and caused the person to target her by cutting her brakes. That was a message, for certain. The killer wanted her to stop—but stop what? And why? What did she know? Or what did the killer think she knew that would cause the person to risk exposure in order to send her that message? She racked her brain trying to figure out what it could be—but nothing became obvious.

The late afternoon sun dipped behind a cloud and her office filled with shadows. Joan had left earlier and she no longer heard Willard typing away next door, so she assumed that he too had headed home. She hadn’t seen a student in over several hours so she figured it was probably time to gather her belongings and head home herself before her husband became worried. Besides, he had said he was making a pot roast tonight and that sounded perfect for this bleak day—all warm with mashed potatoes and gravy.

With books, clipboard, and thermos in hand, she slipped on her jacket and placed her purse over her shoulder and headed out the side entrance into the parking lot. When she’d arrived in the morning, her little white rental car had been one of just a few vehicles in the lot. Now, the small white Fiesta looked isolated between two large SUV’s. She hiked up all of her paraphernalia and reached in the side pocket of her purse for the key chain. Giving a push on her automatic door opener, the car beeped and she grabbed the door and opened it, tossing her belongings across the driver’s seat to the passenger’s side. As she stood up and was almost ready to slide into her seat, a soft swishing sound behind her caused her to turn abruptly.

A huge pair of what looked like scissors was rapidly descending towards her face.

Chapter Thirty

A woman held a large scissor-like tool above her head and gave a grunt as she started to plunge the weapon down towards Pamela’s head. Grabbing the car door for leverage, Pamela ducked quickly to the side and knocked the woman into the car, where she tripped and dropped the shears. As she hit the seat, her hand shot up, trying to pull herself out of the car. Pamela quickly slammed the car door onto the woman’s wrist which was just starting to protrude from the car. With her wrist caught between the door and the door frame, Rosemary Ellis screamed in agony.

“Please!” she cried, “Please, that hurts!”

Pamela continued to maintain pressure on the door, squeezing Rosemary’s wrist between the door and the car frame and making it impossible for the woman to free herself.

“Like it hurt the Coach?” she asked Rosemary, now trapped inside the car. “Like it hurt Skye Davis?”

“Please!” she continued to scream. “Can’t you please just not press so hard? Please!”

“You were going to kill me, Rosemary!”

“I’m sorry,” declared Rosemary Ellis, whimpering, her face getting redder by the moment. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She leaned her back against the door to help maintain pressure on Rosemary’s trapped hand, glancing over her shoulder to be certain that the woman could not escape. That seemed unlikely as the woman’s wrist was securely locked between door and door frame. Ignoring the woman’s cries, Pamela carefully scrounged around in her purse still hanging over her shoulder and brought out her cell phone. She quickly tapped in “9-1-1.”

“Operator, I want to report an attempted murder. The Blake Hall parking lot on campus. Please contact Detective Shoop with the Reardon Police and tell him that Dr. Barnes is waiting for him there.”

The police operator took the information and quickly began contacting the authorities. Pamela replaced her cell phone in her purse and checked over her shoulder on the condition of Rosemary Ellis inside her little rental vehicle. The woman was blubbering, tears streaming down her face, but she was alive, although in obvious pain. Pamela realized that if she released her pressure on the killer’s wrist, Rosemary Ellis would probably seize the opportunity to run.

“Rosemary,” Pamela called out in a conversational voice. “Why don’t you tell me how all this happened—while we’re waiting for the police? They’ll be here in no time.”

“I didn’t want to involve you, Dr. Barnes,” sobbed the woman, “truly, I didn’t. But I was afraid you heard my voice on the recording.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Pamela mystified.

“I didn’t know how many messages you had on your original recording. I know how many you played for us in my office, but you never really said if those were the only messages. I was afraid you might have earlier messages from previous years. Coach never did throw anything away—I always had to clean out his office for him. It would be just like him to save his voice mail messages for years and years.”

“You left some voice mail message for Coach that you didn’t want anyone to hear? You were willing to kill me to prevent me from identifying it?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was several years ago.”

“Go ahead. Tell me.”

“I met Coach at a motel over a year ago—just like all those other women,” she said, bitterly. “He did the same thing then—I registered and called him and left a voice mail message with the room number and then he showed up.”

“You had an affair with Coach Croft?” asked Pamela, incredulous.

“Is it so hard to believe?” the woman in the car cried, “I’m not so old—or so terrible looking, am I?”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Pamela, “I just didn’t imagine that . . . “

“Yes, you can imagine it,” she whined. “He entranced me too. I fell for him and he seduced me. Then as soon as he had me, he dumped me!”

“I’m sorry,” Pamela said.

“It was one thing to be faithful to his invalid wife. I understood that; I admired him for that. But, after just one time together, he called it off. I thought I wasn’t good enough for him. Oh, he gave me this line about how it wasn’t right because of his wife and how we had to work together and it would make it difficult—but he never said any of that before he slept with me. “

“I’m sorry,” Pamela repeated. The woman obviously wanted to talk. Maybe talking kept her mind off of her sore imprisoned wrist.

“Then, slowly over the summer, I started to notice things—little things. You know, he’d go out on errands and I’d have to cover for him—which I was always doing and I normally didn’t mind, because he usually was running errands for the team. But sometimes, he’d come back and he’d be a little different. He’d smell different—perfume. One day, I decided to follow him and he went to a motel and was there for over an hour. I didn’t stay to wait for him because I had to return to work. Somebody had to take care of the team—of the office.”

“So, you discovered that he was having an affair,” she said.

“I discovered that he was cheating on me—and on Sheila, his handicapped wife.”

“Why didn’t you just confront him?”

“He broke my heart! Don’t you understand? I thought I was the only one. He made me feel like I was the only one. When he said we couldn’t see each other again after just that one time together, I thought it was because of his wife and he felt guilty because he didn’t want our sexual relationship to ruin our working relationship. Now, I see it was just an excuse so he could go on having sex with all these other women.”

“But because you were one of these women,” said Pamela, trying to follow the woman’s logic, “you knew what he was up to; you knew what he was planning, so . . . “

“Right,” agreed Rosemary, twisting her wrist. “Please, please, Dr. Barnes. Please release my wrist. It hurts so much.”

“It won’t be long, Rosemary,” said Pamela, consoling. “The police will be here any minute and then I’ll let you go.”

“It hurts so much,” she cried.

“So, you went to the motel room that afternoon when you were sure Coach was meeting with one of his mistresses,” continued Pamela.

“Yes,” she said, nodding her head inside the car. “I waited outside in my car for her to leave. I knew she would because that’s what I had done—leave first, I mean. That was the protocol.” She cried in agony. “When that Davis woman drove off, I walked up the side stairway of the motel, knocked on the doorway where I had seen Coach say good-bye to her. He answered the door, annoyed. He didn’t even seem surprised to see me, just peeved. It infuriated me! When he turned away, I stabbed him with my pruning shears.”

The shears that now lay on the ground beneath her feet outside of her car door. She would bet they’d prove to be the murder weapon.

“What I don’t understand, Rosemary,” said Pamela, “is why did you feel you had to kill Skye Davis?”

“I think she saw me.”

“You mean when you were waiting outside of the motel?”

“Yes,” sobbed the secretary. “She stared right at me as I sat in my car outside that motel and I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but I think she remembered me later—after Coach was gone. I think she figured out who I was. I don’t know where she knew me from. I don’t think she’d ever been in the building, but maybe Coach mentioned me. Then last week, she called me and asked me to meet her at her office.”

“What?”

“Yes,” said Rosemary, “that just seemed too suspicious. I figured that she might be going to blackmail me and I decided I’d better jump the gun and get rid of her before she could pull any tricks, so I waited for her in my SUV in her parking lot of that real estate agency and when she arrived early that morning, I sneaked up on her from behind . . . “

“Like you were going to do with me?”

“Truly, Dr. Barnes,” explained the woman, “I have nothing against you. I was afraid you had that voice mail recording that I’d left on Coach’s cell phone last year . . . “

“You needn’t have worried, Rosemary,” said Pamela, softy, “evidently Coach Croft cleared his cell phone at the beginning of the year. Any messages before January were deleted.”

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t know. When you brought that recording in and I had you play it again and again, I just couldn’t believe that my voice wasn’t on it. I figured you were only playing a small portion of it and you were keeping the part with my voice on it a secret.”

“No,” said Pamela, “you heard all we had.”

The secretary winced as a new burst of pain ran through her arm. A siren sounded nearby and a police cruiser pulled into the driveway of the small lot. All four doors of the vehicle opened at once and Shoop led three uniformed officers towards Pamela’s car.

“My, oh my,” exclaimed Shoop as he surveyed the scene. “What have we here?”

Pamela stood up and released her pressure on the car door. The three officers carefully opened the door and gently helped Rosemary Ellis out from the car.

“I think you’ll find Ms. Ellis willing to admit to both murders, Detective,” said Pamela.

“And just how did you manage to capture our killer, Dr. Barnes?”

“Through devious subterfuge,” exclaimed Pamela. “Actually, I just happened to turn around as she was about to stab me with those pruning shears that you see on the ground by my car door. I’ve been holding her captive by the wrist for the last several minutes. You may not want to handcuff her until you have her wrist looked at by a doctor.”

“Thank you, Dr. Barnes,” called out Rosemary, clutching her wrist with her other hand as the three officers guided her away and into the back seat of the cruiser.

“I suppose you managed to extract her motive while you held her hostage,” noted Shoop to the professor.

Pamela proceeded to inform the burly man the specifics of Rosemary Ellis’s motivation and methodology. By the time she had concluded her explanation, it was dark. The officers had placed the pruning shears in an evidence bag and were standing beside their vehicle with Rosemary in the back seat.

“You’d better get home to that jealous husband of yours,” said Shoop, glancing at his watch. “I hate to be the object of his wrath when you get too involved in one of our investigations.”

“When I get too involved?” she cried, affronted. “Who dragged me into this case?”

“Now, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop soothingly. “Look, it all turned out all right. The guilty party has been caught—and you are none the worse for wear—well, with the exception of that ugly scar on your forehead.”

“It’s really ugly?” she asked, reaching unconsciously to touch the scab.

“Just think of it as a battle wound,” he suggested. With that, he folded up his small notebook that he had been jotting squiggles in while she spoke. Tucking it in his overcoat pocket, he gave her a brief bow and headed over to the cruiser and slid in the front passenger seat. She watched the car drive away with Rosemary Ellis in the back seat looking stoic.

Her phone in her purse gave out its merry jingle and she answered it, guessing who the caller was.

“I’m on my way!” she said breathlessly to her husband.

“It’s after six o’clock!” he cried. “I have pot roast!”

“I know,” she replied, sliding into her car. “I can hardly wait!”

###

Rocky’s Chicken Enchilada Casserole

24 corn tortillas

4 chicken breasts (cut in small pieces and sautéed until golden brown)

2 cans of cream of chicken soup

1 cup of sour cream

1 small container of green chilies

1 cup of white wine

4 cups of shredded Monterrey Jack cheese

Grease a rectangular baking dish and line the bottom with 6-8 tortillas. Mix in the cooked chicken pieces, the soup, sour cream, chilies, and wine. Ladle a layer of the mixture over the tortillas. Follow with a sprinkling of shredded cheese. Place a second layer of tortillas on top of this and repeat the chicken mixture and cheese. End with a final layer of tortillas and top with a thick layer of cheese. Cook at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until the cheese is brown and bubbling.

Milk Ambrosia

(Rocky makes this special drink for Pamela which sometimes causes her to have strange dreams. He likes to reward her with this unique beverage when she has been really, really good—or on occasion—really, really bad.)

1 cup of skim milk

1 TB grenadine or maraschino cherry juice

Add the flavoring to the milk in a saucepan and heat until lukewarm. While heating, use an electric latte frother to foam the milk until frothy and creamy—but not until stiff. Serve immediately.

Voice Mail Murder
is the third in the Pamela Barnes acoustic mystery series by Patricia Rockwell. The first book, which is entitled
Sounds of Murder
, introduced the Psychology professor and acoustics expert heroine. It was followed the next year by
FM for Murder
.