Authors: Charlotte Hinger
Deadly Descent (19 page)
Normally I sleep late on Saturday. I love waking up to birdsong outside our cheery yellow bedroom, love the dazzling blue brightness of the sky from our second-story balcony.
But this morning, I was wired. After Brian’s collapse I had stayed at the courthouse until three o’clock in the morning. Nothing I said lured AngelChild back online.
Furious at having alienated her, after a scant hour’s sleep, I cleaned.
I scrubbed bathtubs and showers and floors and went after spots like I was the ghost of Lady Macbeth. Keith watched me all morning.
I was heading toward the kitchen windows, bucket and squeegee in hand, when his voice rang out.
“Stop it, Lottie.”
I spun around, inadvertently thrusting my squeegee in front of me like it was a lance. “You’re wearing yourself to a frazzle.”
Deep lines, new ones, creased his forehead.
“Come here,” he said gently and beckoned with his fingers like he was coaxing a mad pet dog out of a corner.
I looked at my squeegee and tried to laugh as I propped it up beside my bucket. Then I covered my face with my hands and burst into tears. He scooped me up like I was a sack of feathers and carried me upstairs.
“Right out of
Gone With the Wind
,” I said.
“Not quite, sweetheart, but I
am
going to undress you and put you to bed. The ravishing can wait until you’re in better shape. We’re going to have a long, long talk. You’re going to stay in that bed for the rest of the day if I have to lock you in your room. I want you to tell me everything that’s going on.”
“Okay. You’re a clear thinker, Keith. I want your opinion. Sometimes I overlook things that are in plain sight, and you never do.”
“And you see things I can’t see,” he said.
“No, I don’t see. I
know
and then I have to find evidence to back up what I know. Josie says with you and me, it’s sensation versus intuition.”
“Well, let’s see here. You’ve told me about two murders, an accusation that you stole the Custer letters, missing messages on your answering machine, a vanished letter that links Fiona to Zelda’s murder, threatening letters you’ve received at the courthouse and that the leading senatorial candidate is a drunk. Wonder what you’re holding back?”
I laughed despite my exhaustion, swallowed hard, told him I had spent the night alone at the courthouse, and was called away to an emergency at the Hadleys. I told him about our AngelChild sting.
“Son-of-a-bitch, what were you thinking? What was Sam thinking in letting you be there alone?”
“No, you think Keith. It had to be me there, and Sam and I and Betty Central are it.”
“I could have been there.”
I closed my eyes. “Sweetheart, I was on duty. A deputy can’t take her husband along for protection.”
He flushed.
“And other things keep gnawing at me. I want to know what Judy found. That alone is about to drive me crazy. She said it was a letter. A copy of a letter actually. It only makes sense that Judy’s murderer took it or destroyed it. Now if you really want to help, think. I need someone who can help think.”
With Keith concentrating on details rather than scolding me for endangering myself, a tight wire inside snapped. I had the sensation of floating softly to the ground and my ground was always Keith.
He rose and walked over to the entertainment center built into the bookcase and flipped through some CDs. He selected Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and adjusted the balance on the player. Then he came back, kicked off his shoes and stretched out beside me on top of the quilt.
“I make a top-notch detective, don’t I?”
He drew me close. “I don’t have any bright ideas. It’s not exactly my calling, either.”
I rolled toward him and laid my head on his chest. He stroked my hair. “I hate to worry you.”
He inhaled sharply. “You can’t stop me from worrying. It’s in my job description. In the marriage vows as I recall.”
“Is not.” I punched his shoulder.
“Make a deal with you, Lottie. Keep me posted on everything and I promise I’ll treat you like a professional. And I damn sure can help keep you in better shape. I’m upping the household help starting Monday morning. You’ve got more important things to do with your time than scrubbing floors.”
“Elizabeth will think I’m a wimp,” I mumbled.
“Yes, she will at that.”
I didn’t remember Keith leaving the room. I did remember waking up around seven o’clock and eating a sandwich. That night, I dreamed about a woman in black trying to coax me across a swamp. She was beautiful and compelling, and the surface of the water was lighted by luminescent gases that shifted and glowed. I yearned to follow her, but at the side stood Zelda and Judy. They were gesturing frantically, warning me away.
***
The next morning, I made a three-egg western omelet, added two slices of toast, an orange, and a pot of coffee. I used my Fiestaware. Cheered by the splash of orange and gold and aqua I carried the food out to the patio where I could watch the birds.
The sky was pale grey, charged with energy like a blank computer screen. I groaned at the image of a computer. Suddenly chilled despite my wool socks and flannel shirt, the food stuck in my throat. Despair over having lost AngelChild swept through me like a Kansas dust devil across a field.
Grimly determined to banish murder from my mind, I went back to the kitchen for a thermos of coffee and grabbed a wool comforter from the hall closet. I adjusted the stereo to the outside speakers. Too edgy to bear the emotionality of bluegrass, I ran upstairs for the Vivaldi CD.
Back outside, I draped the quilt over one of our white resin loungers. Keith’s daughters hate our tacky lawn furniture, but I don’t. It’s the perfect in-your-face material for the wind, the dust, Mother Nature’s assaults on our rural courage, day after day. I sat down in my nearly indestructible recliner, pulled the blanket around me, sipped my scalding coffee, and dared whatever to come and get me.
Keith was at Mass. He never missed. It felt good to be home by myself. I smiled at the finches balanced on the edge of the bird feeder. A rabbit appeared at the edge of the windbreak. It darted in, then out, then disappeared back into the dense cedars. It’s lovely, having real acreage.
The view from our backyard is framed like an elegant golf course with grass down the center and a wonderful collection of shrubs, flowering trees and flowers flowing down the sides. My mums were a riot of gold and bronze and maroon.
My internal computer bleeped. Error. Error. The mums needed transplanting. I hadn’t gotten around to it yet. So much for my stab at tranquility. When I’m worried, minor things nag. Take on too much importance. Josie says I’m prey to free-floating anxiety and I should get over it. I sighed. I knew I should call Josie. See if she and Harold had any more bright ideas.
I hadn’t returned some overdue library books. Hadn’t folded the wash. Hadn’t been back to visit Herman. I decided if I ever got enough energy to get out of my chair in this lifetime, I would perhaps go to the nursing home and visit Herman Swenson. Of all that was going on in my life, he seemed the safest.
Then I thought about the baby clothes. Another damned mystery. What was I supposed to know? Understand? Like bobbing for apples, just when I was on the verge of sinking my teeth on a thought, it went back under.
Later, I would give credit to Vivaldi. As the music proceeded to the autumn movement, it came to me with a flourish of trumpets and cellos with dazzling clarity.
Baby clothes. Baby clothes.
I knew. I knew. In my very bones, I knew.
I threw off the comforter, ran into the house, got my keys and dashed to my Tahoe. The key to the front door of the courthouse was still in my jacket pocket.
***
Inside my office, I flicked on the computer. While I was there, I wanted to see if AngelChild had emerged again. However, my mind was on another time, another person. Triumphantly I pulled out my file on the Swenson murders. I pulled out the original note the bank had held on Herman Swenson’s property, and then the bill of sale. I compared them. I was right. I made copies for myself and Sam.
Seeing that there was no new email, I switched off the computer, stuffed the Swenson file and the print-outs from AngelChild in my briefcase, locked up, and tore over to Sam’s office.
He was dozing in his wooden swivel chair, hat atilt, and covering half his face, feet propped on his desk.
“Wake up, Sam. I’m bringing you good news. Tidings of great joy and all that.”
“Huh.” Startled, he jerked awake.
“I have proof positive right here that Herman Swenson did not murder his wife and son.”
“What?” Fully upright now, he fumbled in his desk drawer for his glasses.
“Proof, Sam. Solid proof.” I pointed to the deed and the bill of sale. “See anything funny there?”
“Nothing except how pathetically detailed all the early bank notes were. Buckets, tea towels counted. Even the forks and spoons listed. We’ve talked about that before Lottie.”
“On the original bank note, there was an enormous list of baby clothes. Emily was a superb needlewoman. She embroidered stacks of clothes for Johnny before he was born and for all of the babies she miscarried and for the babies yet to be born. Now look at the bill of sale after the murders.”
He stared at the paper. His hands trembled. “That man has been locked away for years. What have we done?”
“Yes! It’s what is not there, Sam. No baby clothes! Not a single article of baby clothes listed in the bill of sale. Whoever took those baby clothes murdered Herman Swenson’s wife and son.”
“And the baby,” Sam whispered. “The baby.”
Sickened, he coughed from a sudden intake of smoke.
“The baby needed those clothes,” I said.
His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“The baby’s body was never found because it wasn’t there, Sam. Someone took that baby.”
His hands shook as he tamped fresh tobacco into the bowl. The first match died out, then another. It took several. I didn’t mind. There’s some news so terrible you can only inhale it slowly. One toxic breath at a time.
“We’ve had an innocent man locked away all these years.”
“Yes, all these years,” I said bitterly. “He lost his bank. He lost his farm. He lost his wife. He lost his son. He lost his baby. Then he lost his natural life. We’ve kept him locked away all these years.”
“None of this is proof of Herman’s innocence.” He thrummed his fingers on the desk. “We’ll need solid evidence.”
“I know that. But it certainly is grounds for reasonable doubt.”
“You betcha. I’ll have the case reopened. Everything scrutinized using new forensic methods. None of this was available fifty years ago.”
“In the meantime, I’ll start looking for the real murderer. I’ll begin with the assumption that baby was born alive.”
“What vicious son-of-a-bitch could have done such a terrible thing?”
“Yes, a terrible thing. Strange, isn’t it, that people didn’t have a bit of trouble believing Herman did it. Wouldn’t have been because they were prejudiced against bankers, would it?”
“I believe you,” said Sam. “Everything you’re saying. But for once, I know better than you where to start looking. No one could hide a baby in a county of this size. No one. So we’re going to start looking for someone who moved away right after the murders.”
We both said the name at once.
“Rebecca Champlin.”
“She moved to Topeka,” I said. “Right away. She said she couldn’t stand to live any longer in a county where she had experienced so much heartache, but there certainly could have been another reason.”
His quick eyes flashed agreement.
“I’ll bet I know who can tell me about Rebecca. Herman Swenson.”
“Thought he couldn’t talk.”
“He can’t, but he managed to get the baby clothes information to me. It will be interesting to see what he knows about his wife’s sister. Herman dated her first. Before he started going with Emily. Hard to believe the hell-hath-no-fury thing could go to such extremes, but who knows? There was something wrong with that woman. I’m sure of that.”
“Got that right,” Sam said. “She was crazy as a bedbug if she did this.”
“Whoops, there. Now who’s jumping to conclusions?”
“Not much of a jump. This is going to be like finishing up a jigsaw puzzle. Even so, it’ll have to wait. We have a more important job right now.”
“Don’t I know,” I groaned. Reaching for my briefcase, I pulled out the messages from AngelChild.
He read them quickly, then once again with painstaking carefulness. “This should be a real eye-opener to the KBI. I tried to tell the stupid, inept bumblers…”
“Don’t antagonize them.”
“Don’t plan to. Butter won’t melt in my mouth. Just want to show those ignorant bureaucrats what real detecting looks like.”
I laughed. “Those so-called ignorant bureaucrats have all the tools, the resources, the equipment.”
“Yeah, but they don’t have our secret weapon.”
“Which is?”
“You, Lottie.”
“Why, Sam, thank you,” I stammered. Ridiculously pleased, I felt myself blush.
“No, I mean it. I’m blown away at the stuff you’ve unearthed with academic methods. We’re going to postpone going to the KBI with these printouts.”
“We have to turn over information.”
“We will. After we’re done collecting it. There’s no rule I have to parcel it out bit by bit. If I take this to them now, they’ll want to take over. Probably put their own people online.”
“They can’t do that. AngelChild is too sensitive. She would know in a heartbeat it wasn’t me.”
“I know that, but the dumb bastards won’t.”
He was right. I glanced at my watch. “Keith will be getting home from church any time now. Since it’s Sunday, theoretically AngelChild should be home, not working. Since I slept most of the day yesterday and didn’t try to get in touch with her, she’s had a whole day to settle down. I’ll go back in this afternoon and try again. Over my husband’s dead body, of course. He’ll want me to rest.”
“Dead bodies are my specialty now,” he said gloomily. “They used to be yours.”
***
I laughed with delight when I saw her black Mercedes parked in the driveway. Josie sat at our resin table with Keith and a stranger. Tosca, yipping happily, tried to corner a toad at the edge of my flower beds. I parked, ran to Josie and hugged her hard.
“This is Harold Sider.”
“I feel like I know you.” I smiled and shook his hand. He had a cocker spaniel’s soft brown eyes. Too kind for a law enforcement officer, ex or otherwise. I saw the St. John’s Bay label on the navy cardigan draped over the back of his chair, glanced at his khaki Dockers, his scuffed loafers, and trusted him. Serial killers probably did, too.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Josie squinted at me hard. “You look terrible. What have you done to yourself?”
I stiffened. “Haven’t you ever once in your whole over-privileged life started off with hello? What are you doing here? Did you drive four hundred miles just to insult me?”
“Not this time. I’m taking over, Lottie.”
I looked at her blankly. My life? My husband? My job?
“The thing with AngelChild,” she said gently. “Harold and I have talked. You’ve done a terrific job so far, but we want to be in charge of the email. He’s a forensic psychologist, I’m clinical. We’re the A team.”
I started to protest, then stopped. I was a pro too. At historical research. Part of professionalism is knowing when someone else could do the job better.
“You’re right,” I sank into the chair beside Keith. Eyeing me with relief, he reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. He stroked my forearm.
“I don’t want to put you in harm’s way,” I said.
“Not to worry. Harold will be right beside me in your office.”
“Whew! Talk about the cavalry showing up.” From the looks on their faces, they were surprised at my reaction. I held up my hands.
“Did you think I would risk blowing this? That I’m too egotistical to step aside? But Sam has to know you two are stepping in. I’ll call him right now. I was going back to the office this afternoon.”
“We called Sam just before you drove up,” Harold said. “He said you’d just left. We couldn’t do this without his clearance. He’s all for it.”
“The sooner we get started, the better,” Josie said. “We’ve both gotten two-day replacements for our classes and I’ve called my patients. If we can’t get what we need in two days, we’ll cry uncle.”
“I suppose you’re going to pass yourself off as me.”
“But of course. With the weight you’ve lost, it’ll be a snap.”
I looked pointedly at her coal black hair.
“Covered,” she said. “I thought of that. I’ll comb in a few streaks of temporary silver frost.”
“How will you explain Harold? People aren’t used to seeing a strange man in my office.”
Harold edged forward on his chair. “I’ll pose as a computer guru guiding you through a new program. New configuration. It’s a plenty good enough explanation if someone comes looking for you and sees me sitting at your sister’s side.”
“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“How about hanging around the house?” Keith asked. “Taking care of yourself for a change. Eat, sleep. Minor stuff like that.”
I ignored my husband. “What a gold-plated opportunity. I know exactly what I want to do. I’ll go to Topeka and retrace the life of Rebecca Champlin.”
Keith groaned.
“Two days to concentrate on Rebecca! I can discover the secrets of the universe in two days. And before I leave, I want both your impressions of this woman.”
I told them about Herman and the baby clothes. Harold’s eyes widened with surprise.
“You didn’t know how good Lottie was, did you?” Josie said.
“Since she’s your sister, that hardly surprises me. It’s amazing how the past affects what’s happening now.”
“Thanks to one and all, but I’m not angling for compliments. Before I leave, please look at all the information I’ve accumulated. I want your expert opinions about Rebecca Champlin. What you think, what you suspect.”
“From what you’ve said, I’d say you’re right in wondering about this woman’s health problems,” Sider said. “You need to get her past medical records.”
“If I have a lull, I could ask for information,” Josie said, “You couldn’t, Harold, without setting everyone in the county abuzz, but I could.”
“Don’t even think about asking for Rebecca’s medical records,” I said. “Stick to your main murder. Dr. Golbert would know in a heartbeat you’re not me. Besides, right now, I’m just looking for evidence that might support my ideas. Hello,” I coaxed. “I need to focus on something else while I’m gone. Not just sit around. Help me out here.”
Harold nodded and Josie gave in.
“If she killed her sister and nephew and stole a baby, she was clearly psychotic,” Josie said.
“Doesn’t mean she acted irrationally,” Harold added.
“A newborn baby would have needed medical attention,” Josie said.
“Not unless there was something terribly wrong,” said Keith. “Lottie says she was a farm woman who raised hogs. She would have known a lot about birthing that would apply to humans.”
“But surely she took the child to a doctor at some point,” Josie said.
Keith was thoughtful. “Maybe not. These were the years before inoculations or regular check-ups of any kind, and no government oversight whatsoever.”
I glanced at my watch. “We need to get started. All of us. Oh-oh. You’ll have to be seen driving my Tahoe, Josie. I’ll have to take your Mercedes. Hot dog.”
“Hot dog, hell,” she muttered.
“It’s the breaks, sis.”
Harold grinned and Keith rolled his eyes.