A Specter of Justice (9 page)

He leaned forward. “I want you to work for me.”

“We are working for you. The Atwood custody case is still going on and Nakayla and I are monitoring the behavior of Clyde's parents.”

“No, Sam. I want you to work for me. Personally.”

“I don't understand.”

“You need to find who killed Lenore and Molly.”

“The police are investigating. Newland's a good detective.”

“Newland will zero in on one person. A person he and the department would like to see brought down.”

“Who?”

“Me. My prints are all over Lenore's house. She was my lover.”

Chapter Ten

I stared at Hewitt. My challenge to Detective Newland to investigate his own partner because of Tuck Efird's relationship to Molly Staton had just boomeranged on me. Hewitt warranted the same scrutiny.

“How long?” I asked.

“A couple of months. Since we started working on the fundraiser together. I've known Lenore for years, but this time when our paths crossed, the chemistry was different. It just sort of happened.”

There was probably a twenty-year difference in their ages, I thought. But, such a relationship wasn't that uncommon. Hewitt kept his personal life private. I knew he was divorced, although I wasn't sure how many times. I'd never known him to date, and chalked that up to his obsession with his career.

“Who knew about it?” I asked.

“No one. We wanted to play it out a little longer. Less awkward in case things fell apart.”

“You don't think Lenore told anyone?”

Hewitt smiled. “It was Lenore's idea. She particularly didn't want Molly or Shirley to know.”

“You have no motive. She hadn't broken up with you. You'd been to her house so naturally your fingerprints are there. End of story.”

Hewitt leaned forward and raked his fingers through his long hair so hard several silver strands drifted to the floor. “But I wasn't as forthcoming with Newland as I should have been. I did see Lenore yesterday. I stayed over Thursday night and ran out yesterday morning to buy us juice and coffee for breakfast. Yes, I can say my fingerprints were there because I visited her house, but you can bet your ass they're going to find a receipt in Lenore's trash with a time stamp on it. It will be a little difficult to explain my fingerprints on a bottle purchased only a few hours before her murder.”

Circumstantial, I thought, but the timing would look bad. And I sensed Detective Newland had something else at play. His question about whether I knew what Hewitt had been wearing last night wasn't as casual as he pretended it to be.

“Then you'd better get ahead of it,” I advised. “If he thinks you're covering up, it will only make him more suspicious.”

“I know. Newland played it cagey not telling us Lenore was dead when he asked when we'd last seen her. Otherwise, I wouldn't have tried to hide that I'd been there.”

“You want to see how he reacts to your statement before Nakayla and I investigate?”

Hewitt stood so fast it was like the chair ejected him. “No, goddammit. My problems aside, I want you to find whoever killed Lenore.” He paced back and forth around the curve of the table. “My gut tells me someone involved with the Atwood case is behind it.”

“What would they have to gain by killing Molly and Lenore?”

He stopped and threw up his hands. “What would anyone have to gain? I don't think we're talking logic here. Someone wanted to disrupt the event. They're so ignorant they probably thought we'd have to give everyone their money back, and Helen Wilson would look irresponsible as the twins' guardian.”

I kept my seat and looked up at the distraught lawyer. I'd never seen him in such a state. The master of the courtroom seemed to be falling apart in his own office. For once, he was the one not thinking logically.

Hewitt must have read the doubt on my face. “What? If you have a better idea, I'm all ears.”

I motioned for him to sit in the chair beside me. “Let's step back a moment and review what we do know.”

He took a deep breath and sat.

“First, no one knew about your relationship with Lenore,” I said.

“That's right. If she said she was keeping it a secret, it was a secret.”

“Then whoever killed her isn't doing this to hurt you or frame you.”

“No,” he agreed, “not because of her. But they could be trying to discredit me since I'm Helen's attorney.”

I hadn't thought about Hewitt as a target. His fear more likely grew out of his sense of his own importance rather than any conspiratorial scheme. “Okay. But that undercuts your theory that they're stupid. Look how these murders were orchestrated. Not one but two complex maneuvers to get Molly dressed and positioned at the bridge and Lenore into that hotel room. Can you see Cletus Atwood pulling that off?”

“Don't ever think ignorance trumps cunning,” Hewitt said. “I've defended some characters who couldn't spell their own names, but if they saw you as prey, they'd out maneuver you at every turn.”

“Yes, maybe they would scurry like conniving rats in the dark at Helen's Bridge, but do you think they could waltz Lenore's body through the lobby of the Grove Park Inn?”

Hewitt's eyes flickered as the question brought his rant to a halt. “No. That was brazen. I can't see Cletus Atwood having the poise or confidence to take the risk.” He drummed his fingers on the conference table. “How do you think they managed it?”

I thought back to the spilled flowerpot and the soil tracked through the house. “I believe Lenore was murdered in the shed. My bet is the killer used a wheelchair to get her to the bedroom where he changed her into the dress. That's why her dirty gardening shoes were under the bed.”

“Then where were the rest of her clothes?”

“Good question. Maybe forensics will find them stuffed in a hamper or the washing machine. They'll surface.”

“And how did Lenore wind up in room 545?”

I shrugged. “The same way. Wheeled right into the Grove Park. A broad-brimmed hat, a lap blanket to hide a restraint, friendly nod to any bellhop, and no one would give them a second thought. How many wheelchairs do you think go into the inn a day?”

Hewitt nodded. “You give Detective Newland your theory?”

“I floated it by him. I expect he'll start looking at makes and models for a tread match.”

“And how many wheelchairs are in Asheville?”

“All we need is one connected to someone with a motive.”

“Which brings us back to the Atwoods,” Hewitt said. “Either they're smarter than we give them credit for, or they enlisted some help.”

Now I stood, physically breaking away from Hewitt's reluctance to view any other possibility. I walked to the wall and stared at a young Bob Dylan with his girlfriend, walking down a New York street on the album cover
Freewheelin'.
We needed to get our own wheels free from Hewitt's Atwood rut and at least explore other roads.

I turned around. “If I run an investigation, I'm not doing so with preconceived notions, either yours or mine.”

“So you have other suspects?”

“If we can find other motives. I don't know what connects Lenore and Molly other than the Atwood case, but what if one was the target and the other silenced for whatever she knew or saw?”

Hewitt's eyebrows arched as he considered the point. “The hanging at the bridge was certainly more elaborate. So you think Lenore's death might have been improvised out of necessity?”

“I'm trying not to think anything at this stage other than follow whatever evidence we can find. Like who booked the room at the Grove Park?”

Hewitt's ruddy complexion paled. “I did. I picked up two keys Thursday so we could have early access on Friday. I left one with Lenore. I asked her to spend Thursday night there with me, but she preferred staying at her home.” His voice caught. “Friday night after the event was supposed to be our romantic getaway.”

Fingerprints. Room access. Hewitt was stepping in it big-time.

“Get to Newland now,” I insisted. “And in person rather than over the phone.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to the Grove Park. And it won't be for the view.”

***

The mammoth inn and spa rested on the side of Sunset Mountain, so named for the spectacular view of the western sky and Appalachian ridge line. Nakayla and I frequently drove up in late afternoons for a glass of wine on the inn's Sunset Terrace. We hardly spoke, preferring to watch the kaleidoscopic array of golds, pinks, and purples diffuse across the wisps of clouds. Simply sharing the moment was enough.

E.W. Grove had constructed his lodge in 1913 so that the well-to-do could escape the stress of the times to a retreat cocooned in rejuvenating fresh air and undisturbed tranquility. The patent medicine tycoon enforced his restrictions with such decrees as no running of water or flushing of commodes after ten-thirty at night. If you were too loud in the Great Hall of the inn, a printed card was delivered to your room reprimanding you for the behavior. Children were discouraged, dogs strictly forbidden, and alcohol was not a part of the drink selections. Obviously, that rule changed before F. Scott Fitzgerald showed up with his beer and booze in the mid-1930s.

The entire complex had been recently sold to the OMNI hotel chain, but the modifications imposed were more enhancements of the Grove Park's rich heritage rather than some overblown contemporary renovation.

In working our first case as a detective team, Nakayla and I had become acquainted with key staffers when we investigated F. Scott Fitzgerald's ties to the inn. Our involvement culminated in a shootout on the premises that left one of our suspects dead. Since then, our visits to the Grove Park had been strictly for drinks and the occasional dinner. The managers with whom we dealt had retired or moved on to other enterprises. So, as I drove through the stone-gated entrance, I knew I had neither special access to information nor anyone predisposed to help me.

Trying to put myself inside the head of the killer, I passed the valet parking at the front of the inn and entered the deck on the far side. An elevator connected all parking levels to a wing off the Great Hall that provided a route avoiding the throng clustered around the registration desk where attending bellhops eyed each guest for tip-worthy luggage.

I rode the elevator alone and then followed the signs to the Great Hall, passing only a few people engaged in their own conversations. Several staff members acknowledged me with a smile, but no one gave me a second look.

The Great Hall boasted two huge fireplaces, one at each end with comfortable chairs and sofas arranged in multiple groupings where guests could drink and talk. Opposite the main entrance, the hall opened on the Sunset Terrace with its unrivaled mountain vista. The positioning of the fireplaces, main entrance, and terrace meant the center of the room was relatively empty. Everyone was in motion to some other destination.

I stepped close to the hearth of the nearer fireplace and surveyed the room. During the next five minutes, I saw three wheelchairs navigate through the open space, two propelled by their occupants and one pushed by what appeared to be an elderly lady's dutiful son. Only one of the three drew attention, a young man with a lower leg cast who seemed uncertain as to where he was going.

I also eyed the far edge of the opposite fireplace. The floor-to-ceiling stonework encased a working elevator, E.W. Grove's attempt to insulate the motor and cable noise from disturbing his guests. When the area around the door appeared clear, I purposefully strode across the Great Hall and pressed the button to summon the lift. I entered as the sole rider and selected the fifth floor. The old elevator started with a slight jolt and then rose with all the speed of a snail climbing a branch.

In addition to being housed in a fireplace, the elevator had the distinction of making the list of
Ripley's Believe It Or Not
for having not one or two but three doors for entering and exiting. As I faced the main door, I remembered the Palm Atrium floors triggered the door to my left. I'd been startled on my first ride when what I thought was a wall opened beside me. I thought about the implications of a wheelchair being positioned to roll straight in and straight out and concluded that even though the interior of the elevator was small, a wheelchair could be turned for the right-angle exit.

With a clunk, the elevator halted and the door slid open. I stepped out onto the fifth-floor balcony and peered over the waist-high safety wall. Below, palm ferns in wooden planters lined the perimeter of the atrium's courtyard. Leather and wicker furniture clustered in conversational arrangements. Their earth tones projected a calming atmosphere while the mauve trim of the balconies and decorative wall stencils kept the decor interesting.

But no one was seated. A few people stood along the length of the right side of the courtyard looking up across its width. I followed their gaze. Garish yellow crime scene tape blocked the long corridor at either end. Techs wheeled a collapsible gurney out a door. The sheet-covered body of Lenore Carpenter was headed for the morgue.

“Newly said you'd probably turn up.”

Tuck Efird stepped beside me. I'd been so focused on the activity at the room I hadn't seen him approach from the opposite side of the fifth floor balcony.

“I saw Newly at Lenore's house. He told me what happened.”

The strain was readily apparent on Efird's face. Like Newland, he hadn't slept since Molly's body dropped from the bridge.

“Newly shared your wheelchair theory.” Efird made the statement while staring across the atrium at the gurney now rolling to the far diagonal corner. His tone was neither sarcastic nor enthusiastic.

“It's just a theory. The tread marks in Lenore's house seem consistent with that tire size.”

“It's a damn good theory.” Efird turned to me. “We found similar impressions in the soil atop Helen's Bridge.”

“Really?”

“Gives us an idea where the car was parked along the roadside. But the son of a bitch stayed on the pavement so there were no tire marks.”

“He took a hell of a chance,” I said. “There's traffic on that road.”

Efird stepped forward and squeezed the top of the balcony so hard his knuckles turned white. “I think he hid her body up there a couple hours earlier. Probably stuffed her on the back floor of his car and covered her with a blanket or tarp. A wheelchair would unfold in just a few seconds. After twenty feet he'd be out of sight. We'll know more after the autopsy.”