A Murder In Passing (5 page)

Chapter Five

“Well, that was interesting.” Nakayla made the understatement of the day as she stepped back into the office after walking Marsha Montgomery to the elevator.

We'd told the woman we wanted to look at possible avenues for a productive investigation before committing to take her case. Then we could give her an estimate of expenses and an assessment of potential success. In reality, Nakayla and I were signaling each other that neither of us took Marsha Montgomery at face value. It's not that uncommon for clients to tell you half truths or outright lies in an attempt to cast themselves in the most favorable light. Particularly if they know uncovered circumstances could lead to a “he said—she said” outcome.

But Marsha Montgomery's story was in a category all its own. Two events involving the Kingdom of the Happy Land don't appear within a two-day period without some connection. Something brought Marsha Montgomery to our door and that something had once been a living, breathing human being who wound up entombed in a hollow log. If we got involved in the case, it would have to be with eyes wide open that our client sought us out for reasons yet to be revealed. Those reasons could be to keep something hidden rather than bring it to light.

I leaned back in the leather chair. “Interesting, disingenuous, deceitful. Pick a word.”

Nakayla slipped her shoes off and sat on the sofa with her bare feet tucked under her. “You want to walk away?”

“Not until I know what I'm walking away from.”

“I think it's about the rifle.”

“I agree. I think if we hadn't asked what else was stolen, she would have worked it in. But the way it played, she mentioned it in response to a question.”

“Why mention it at all?”

I thought for a moment. “She's setting the stage for something yet to happen. Another shoe's going to drop.”

“The skeleton's got to be her father and she's protecting her mother.”

“That's my guess. Get the rifle out of the house before the date of death.”

Nakayla frowned. “Why not get the body out of the log? Bury it in those woods? There were probably root cellars left from the Kingdom. Dig a hole at the bottom of one of them and no one would ever find it.”

“And why fabricate such an elaborate story about this Doris Ulmann and Julia Peterkin? The best lie is the simplest lie.”

“Maybe it was the simplest lie,” Nakayla said. “Marsha had to have a reason to resurrect a forty-five-year-old burglary. She's right about the value of those photographs increasing.”

I looked past Nakayla to the door our visitor had exited. “So, you believe her?”

“I believe she's in trouble. Or thinks she is.”

I nodded. “I agree. I'm prone to accept her as a client.”

“You sure?”

“What else are we going to do? The phone's not exactly ringing off the hook.”

“You're right. And we know it's not forwarded.”

“Smartass.” I stood. “You can start checking into Marsha Montgomery's background. Find out what's fact and what's fiction. Meanwhile, we'll hold off deciding to take the case until I get back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To surprise Lucille Montgomery. Let's see how well the mother's story corroborates the daughter's.”

***

I drove up to the unmanned guardhouse and stopped just short of the red and white crossbar. The entry to the Golden Oaks Retirement Center had been strategically installed at the base of a mountain in Arden, a small town about ten miles outside of Asheville. It was better to turn a car away there before it had to negotiate the winding switchbacks to the summit. Golden Oaks brought senior citizens closer to heaven in more ways than one.

I rolled down my window and pushed a silver button beside a speaker in the guardhouse wall.

“Welcome to Golden Oaks. How can I help you?” The woman's voice was friendly but officious.

“I'm here to see Ron Kline.”

“Is Mr. Kline expecting you?”

“Tell the Captain that Sam Blackman is on his trail.”

The woman laughed. “Sam, why didn't you say so?”

The crossbar rose.

“Come on up. Do you want me to warn him? He's with his bevy of beauties.”

“No. Better not disturb a sultan when he's with his harem.”

She laughed again. “You think you're joking? You'll find him in the TV room.”

Ron Kline, aka Captain, had to be in his late eighties or early nineties. Nakayla and I met him during the course of our first case when circumstances led us to one of the residents of Golden Oaks. Captain had actually risen to the rank of Colonel, and as a former Chief Warrant Officer myself, we shared the common bond of military service. He'd been a captain in World War Two and he said that had been the most meaningful time of his army career. He'd been closest to his men and the phrase “Band of Brothers” didn't do justice to the unwavering loyalty forged in battle. Now Captain was the unofficial commander of Golden Oaks and the darling of an overwhelmingly female population smitten with any man still breathing.

I spotted him sitting on a sofa and holding court with two ladies on either side and three at a nearby card table, their chairs angled to face him. The flat screen TV mounted on the paneled wall displayed some generic morning talk show. No one was watching. Captain was talking. I slipped up behind him and heard a sentence fragment referencing General Eisenhower.

“Captain Ron Kline,” I whispered dramatically. “Please report for duty.”

His curved shoulders snapped back and he reached for his walker. One of the elderly women beside him twisted around to see who had interrupted their conversation. The rest of the ladies seemed alarmed at Captain's sudden movement. They hadn't heard me and probably thought Captain was having a stroke.

He got to his feet with surprising agility, whipped the walker around one hundred eighty degrees, and gave me a brisk salute.

I returned it and added a wink. It was our special way of greeting. “Are you up for a walk?”

Captain backed up far enough so he could see all five of his admirers. “I'm sorry, ladies. A mission beckons.”

One of the women at the table eyed me suspiciously. She looked familiar but I couldn't recall her name.

“Don't you let anything happen to him,” she ordered.

Captain waved his hand. “Don't worry, Joanne. I'll take good care of Sam.”

The others giggled like school girls.

Joanne wouldn't be mollified. “I'm serious, Mr. Blackman. Hanging out with you can be dangerous.”

I recognized her as part of Captain's CIA. That stood for Corridor Intelligence Agency, a group of residents Captain organized to patrol the halls and keep an eye on the community's well-being. I knew Joanne was referring to the terrible incident when a resident became our client and was murdered after speaking with me.

“I just have to get Captain's advice on something,” I said. “I figure he knows more about women than I do.”

Even Joanne giggled. “If he doesn't,” she said, “you ask any of us. We'll set you straight.”

Captain looped around the sofa and stopped beside me. He stood half-a-head shorter, no more than five foot four. Old age probably had knocked a good three inches off his height.

“I fancy a stroll outside,” he said. “This store-bought air is like breathing pablum. No zest.” He lunged forward with his walker and headed at a brisk clip for a side door.

We exited onto a garden patio. Concrete pathways radiated out in multiple directions. They were painted to look like flagstone but the surface was smooth so as not to trip the unsteady steps of those whose balance had grown a little shaky. Flowerbeds displayed a brilliance of late spring blossoms and their natural perfume permeated the warm air. Zest, indeed.

Captain filled his lungs. “Makes you feel alive. I hope there's a sense of smell in heaven.”

“Then you think we'll have to take showers?”

He frowned. “I hadn't thought about that. Could be a problem. Those two women on the sofa keep complaining they've got no one to scrub their backs.”

“Sounds like an opportunity in the here and now.”

“I'll give them your number. My pension can't support another paternity suit.”

We continued down one of the walkways. I was content to let Captain set the pace and decide when to ask what I wanted. The garden wrapped around the building and within a few minutes we were out of sight of the main entry.

Captain pointed to a bench on the far side of a koi pond. “Let's sit a spell. We shouldn't be bothered. Most people stay inside after lunch.”

He parked his walker at one end and eased onto the cedar bench. I sat beside him. Two friends separated by half a foot and over half a century.

“I'm glad you came by,” he said. “I should have called you first thing this morning.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“The Mayor's in intensive care.”

The Mayor was the oldest resident at Golden Oaks. His real name was Harry Young, but, at a hundred and five, everyone affectionately called him by his nickname.

“When did this happen?”

“This morning. Bertha, the head nurse of critical care, told me after breakfast. I didn't want to say anything to the girls until later when the medical team knows more. The Mayor just didn't have the strength to get out of bed.”

“Pneumonia?”

“Probably.” Captain's eyes glistened. “The old man's friend, we call it. They say it takes you away without pain. There's a breath, and then never another.”

I patted his leg. “The Mayor might surprise us.”

“Oh, he's done that already. A hundred and five. The things that man's seen.”

Captain sounded like he was part of the Facebook generation compared to the Mayor.

“Well, we all go in our time,” he said. “But not a day passes I don't think of the young men lost under my command. And wonder why their time was so early.”

I didn't say anything. We sat in the sunlight a few moments. The water gurgled through the filter of the pond's pump. The brightly colored koi glided in and out of the shadows cast by the lily pads. It was a good day to be alive.

“What's on your mind?” he said at last.

“Do you know someone named Lucille Montgomery?”

“Sure. Nice lady. Did her daughter get in touch?”

I stared at Captain with surprise. “How'd you know?”

“I'm the one who told her about you. Marsha didn't waste any time.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday afternoon. She came to have lunch with Lucille. We'd all gone to church together. The ecumenical service in the auditorium.”

“You'd met her before?”

“Oh, yeah. Lucille's been here about five years. Marsha's good to visit. She works for Lang Paper Manufacturing. I think she's in sales. Lucille says her daughter travels some, but she's usually home on the weekends.”

Captain's description of Marsha's job matched the professional appearance of the woman.

“How did my name come up?”

“She caught me at the dessert table. She said she needed some background check run at work but didn't want to use their normal channels. She said it was a sensitive internal investigation. I thought she was probably talking about some sort of suspected embezzlement.”

“She didn't say it was personal?”

Captain shook his head. “No. She said her mother told her I'd been involved with some investigators from Asheville. She thought hiring someone from out of town might be better.”

“Where's the paper plant?”

“On the outskirts of Brevard.”

Brevard was about twenty-five miles from Asheville and paper mills had once been a strong component of its manufacturing base. Many had closed as outsourcing and environmental laws had affected profitability.

“She asked me not to say anything about it because it could reflect badly on the company.” He looked at me curiously. “So if it's about her job, why do you want to talk to Lucille?”

“That's a good question. Maybe we should leave it at that.”

He grinned. “The private in private eye. Okay. What else do you want to know?”

“How can I meet her?”

“Easy. I'll introduce you.” He checked his watch. “She should be in her apartment.”

“Thanks.” I stood and waited for Captain to man his walker. “You think I could see Harry?”

“While you're with Lucille, I'll speak to Bertha. The Mayor doesn't have any kin so I think they'll be flexible. I'm sure he'd love to see you.”

I followed Captain down one of the long corridors to the end. He stopped in front of a door with a brass plaque reading “Montgomery.” Beneath it hung cutout wooden block letters of alternating red and white forming the phrase, “Enter with a Happy Heart.”

“Lucille's got a trek to the dining hall,” I said.

“Yeah, but she's spry. And she saves money.”

“How?”

“The farther units aren't as expensive. In this place, a great location means you're close to the food.” Captain chuckled. “Amazing how your priorities change as you get older. You just wait.” He rapped lightly on the door. “Lucille's hearing is sharp. So's her mind. You won't have any trouble questioning her.”

The soft pad of footsteps sounded from within. Then a reedy voice called, “Just a minute.”

A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal a petite African-American woman leaning against a lacquered black cane. The wrinkles in her face crinkled deeper as she smiled with delight to see Captain. Then her expression became quizzical as her bright eyes focused on me. Marsha Montgomery said her mother was eighty-five, but Lucille looked ten years younger. Her dark skin held a natural beauty that still shone through.

“Well, what did you bring me, Captain? Can I keep him?”