Cast a Blue Shadow (14 page)

“Trouble with that is, she didn’t lose much blood at all, wherever she was killed. Her blood volumes are right where they should be. Remember, the head wound didn’t kill her.”

“We thought that maybe she was drugged before she died.”

Taggert stepped to the bench along the back wall and held up a small bottle with a ground-glass stopper. “I thought of that, too. This is DMSO.” She pointed out the label on the bottle.

“And that is?”

“It’s a solvent, for one thing, but it’s also known for its ability to penetrate skin. From what I understand, she used this for migraine headaches.”

“How’s that fit with poisoning?”

“You could put a sedative in the DMSO, and it would go into the skin right along with the solvent.”

“You found no poison in it?”

“Just DMSO and water. It’s unusual to mix it with water, but that’s all it is—water.”

There was a knock, and they turned to see Captain Dan Wilsher rapping his knuckles on the metal frame of the door to the lab. He carried in a brown plastic garbage bag and set it on the floor next to the coroner’s autopsy table. As he took off coat and gloves, he said, “We haven’t found any bloody rags or clothes at the Favor residence, Bruce, inside or out.” To Missy, he greeted, “Coroner.”

“Captain,” Missy said and nodded at the garbage bag.

“Right,” Wilsher said. “You’ll want some gloves and tongs or something.”

Missy snapped into a pair of examination gloves and took a large pair of forceps out of a drawer. She set the garbage bag on its side, on the table at Favor’s feet, and teased the opening wide with the forceps. Reaching inside, she clamped down on fabric and drew out a long, green skirt, heavily wrinkled. Next came out a pair of black panty hose and a white lace prayer cap with long string ties. There was also a pink blouse. From the bottom of the bag, Melissa pulled out a white apron crusted in the middle with a moderate amount of dried blood.

“This all came out of the trunk of Sonny Favor’s Lexus,” Wilsher said.

28

Saturday, November 2 12:30 P.M.

WHILE Missy sorted through the clothes a second time, Robertson returned to her desk and dialed the jail. “Ellie,” he said. “Is Mike Branden still there? OK. Tell him to stay put. What? You’re kidding. Who did that? No. No. Right, that’s a parking violation, so there’s a fine. Plus the towing fee. Doesn’t matter. Once Ed Lorentz hooks onto your bumper, that’s a towing fee whether he moves it five miles or five feet.”

When the sheriff entered the jail by the back door, there was pandemonium at the far end of the hall, where Ellie Troyer-Niell stood defensively behind her counter, shaking her head emphatically as Henry DiSalvo held out a check. When the sheriff reached her, Ellie was saying, “You have to pay those fines at the courthouse.”

Robertson said to DiSalvo, “What’s going on, Henry?”

DiSalvo said, “Ed Lorentz won’t release the Favor limousine until we’ve paid our fines, and the courthouse isn’t open for business on Saturdays.”

Daniel Bliss, behind DiSalvo, stepped forward and began, “Now, see here, Sheriff.”

Robertson cut him off. “Just hold on there, Bliss.” To Ellie he said, “What’s the total?”

Ed Lorentz piped up from near the front door. “My fee is $150, and that’s final!”

“Really,” Bliss turned and said. “I doubt your whole truck is worth that much.”

Lorentz said, “Oh, yeah?” and took a step forward. Robertson came out from behind the counter.

“Oh, please!” Bliss said to the approaching Lorentz, and raised his hands in disgust.

Bliss stood next to DiSalvo. Sonny Favor stood back from the counter, holding himself apart from the fracas. Sally and Jenny held hands near the Pepsi machine, and a new man in a suit stood next to them. Branden was leaning on an elbow at Ellie’s counter, Ricky Niell to his left. Robertson took a position between Ed Lorentz and Daniel Bliss. Instantly, everyone was shouting, and just as instantly, Ellie put two fingers between her teeth and gave out an ear-shattering whistle that brought the whole crowd to silence. Forcefully, she said, “I’m not a cashier, so you all clear on out of my lobby!”

Robertson’s grin went ear-to-ear. DiSalvo quietly slipped his check into the vest pocket of his three-piece suit. Daniel Bliss threw his hands in the air, to the great entertainment of Ed Lorentz.

“My office, everyone, now,” Robertson ordered. Once they were all packed into his office, Robertson said, “Ed, will you take their check?”

“Cash only!” Lorentz intoned.

“Oh, great!” Bliss said and took out his wallet. He counted out bills, held them out stiffly to Lorentz, and turned his back once Lorentz had taken the payment.

The man in the suit stepped forward and laid his card on the sheriff’s desk. “I’m John Lumbaird, Miss Radcliffe’s lawyer.”

Robertson ignored the man.

DiSalvo said, “We’ll be leaving now,” and led out the door. Sonny followed first, and then the rest, leaving Professor Branden beside the credenza, where he poured a cup of coffee and smiled to the point of outright laughter.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” Robertson barked and sat down behind his desk.

Branden shrugged and stirred creamer into his coffee. A silence ensued, during which Branden sprawled in his usual place, a low leather chair in front of Robertson’s desk. The sheriff studied the card left by Jenny Radcliffe’s lawyer. To Branden, he said, “Anything about Martha yet?”

Branden frowned, shook his head, stood up, and moved to the windows facing west onto Clay Street. Heavy snow fell in large, soft flakes as traffic splashed through the slush on the pavement. Branden thought about the fresh tracks in the snow that Caroline had described when he had called her from the empty squad room. So, Martha had called Sonny. They knew that from the *69 call-back. But, had she mentioned her pregnancy? That did fit Sonny’s reaction. “You’ll have to take care of that on your own,” he had said. No wonder she ran away. But, to where? Or to whom? Could Sonny Favor cut and run from a relationship, just like that? Probably. Branden knew the boy as well as anyone did, short of his doctors and family. It was the bloody apron, though, that seemed to register most with Robertson. And why not? Nothing else struck bone like that. Not in this case. Two dozen suspects, an equal number of motives, and Martha Lehman coming to her senses, and doing what? Running.

Ricky Niell came into the room and sat down in front of Robertson’s desk.

“I really don’t know where she is, Bruce,” Branden said, turning from the snowfall outside. “If I did, I’d bring her in myself.”

“Not if you thought she killed Favor.”

“You don’t think she did that, any more than I do, Bruce. At most, she’ll serve as a material witness. Testify as to what she saw.”

“I want her, Mike. Right now.”

“I can’t produce her. I’m getting tired of telling you that.”

Robertson threw up his hands and leaned his swivel-rocker back as far as it would go. He stared up at the ornate squares of the hand-hammered tin ceiling tiles and said, “Missy doesn’t think the blow to the head is what killed Favor. Says she was dead some time before she got hit in the head.”

Branden’s attention soared. “Then all the bloody apron tells us is that she was there after Favor was killed.”

“It doesn’t tell us where your Martha was before or during the murder,” Robertson said. “But, I don’t get it. What’s that crack in the marble floor, anyways?”

“Now you’re coming around to my way of thinking,” Branden said.

“Then we really don’t know how she was killed,” Niell said.

“We’re nowhere in this case, Bruce,” Branden said.

“How could Mrs. Favor die first, and then haul herself upstairs?” Niell asked.

“She couldn’t,” Robertson said, frustrated. He reached instinctively for a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, and cursed aloud.

“So, that means Martha’s apron doesn’t necessarily tie her to a murder,” Branden said after a moment.

“At the very least,” Robertson said, “it ties her to a dead body. Providing the blood matches.”

Branden shook his head sadly. “She found her, Bruce. Cleaned her up and cleared out, nothing more.”

Niell said, “So, who killed her, and how?”

Robertson tilted his chair back level. “Back to square one,” he said.

“OK,” Branden said. “Maybe Martha went back to see her, much later that night.”

“Why?” Robertson asked.

Niell said, “Mrs. Favor bawled her out. Called her cheap trash. Maybe Martha went back to confront her.”

“At 5:00 A.M.?” Robertson asked.

“Or, maybe she went back for Sonny,” Niell proposed.

Branden privately thought that was as plausible as anything he had heard, but he said, “She might have gone back to talk to his mother.”

“This is all conjecture,” Bruce complained. “The whole thing runs in circles.”

“It explains how she got blood on her apron,” Niell said.

“We can’t even be sure how Juliet Favor died,” Robertson said.

“What did Missy tell you, exactly, Bruce?” Branden asked.

“The blow to her head was delivered
post mortem.
There were no toxins in her system. The green pitcher and sink traps held water only. Well water to be specific. The little medicine bottle held DMS something.”

“DMSO,” Branden said. “She rubbed that on her temples for headaches.”

“You know about that?” Robertson asked.

“Dick Pomeroy told me. It goes right into the skin.”

“Could have been a sedative or something mixed in with that,” Niell offered.

“Missy checked,” Robertson said, shaking his head. “It was just DMSO and water.”

“Is she sure?” Branden asked. “Is her test reliable?”

“For the most part. She did that GC test and had a bunch of graphs. But all the bottle held was DMSO, plus water. Even had the same trace impurities as drinking water.”

Branden frowned. “Missy can’t find a cause of death?”

“Not at this point,” Robertson said. “When I left her, she was planning on a more complete autopsy. Gonna send samples out, that sort of thing.”

“Good grief,” Branden said, rubbing his temples. “It could have been anyone.”

“Or more than one,” Niell said. “I mean, one person to kill her, however that was done, plus another to clunk her in the head, after she was dead.”

“Clunk her with what?” Robertson asked.

“Then Martha came on the scene last,” Branden said. “That exonerates her.”

“Clunk her with what?” Robertson repeated.

Niell shrugged and said, “Also, when?”

Robertson unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth.

Branden blinked double and stared at the sheriff. He looked around the room, studied Robertson’s desktop, and shook his head. Incredulously, the professor said, “You’re not smoking!”

Robertson smiled. “Wondered who’d be the first to notice.”

Niell whistled. “It has been some kind of day.”

“Is it Missy who has finally gotten you doing this?” Branden asked.

“Sort of,” Robertson said.

“Way to go, Missy,” Branden said.

Niell gave a thumbs-up.

“You don’t seem unusually grouchy or impatient,” Branden said.

“I’m not!” Robertson growled. “I’m on the patch.” He rubbed the outside of his left arm, where the nicotine patch lay under his sleeve.

Branden whistled a low, respectful note.

“Anyway,” Robertson said, “this isn’t about me. I want to talk to Martha Lehman.”

“Bruce, we all do,” Branden said.

“If what you propose is true, she was the last person in the bedroom before Sonny found her dead this morning.”

“And the trouble with that,” Branden said, “is anyone could have killed her. Anyone could have hit her over the head. Might have been the same person, might not.”

“That’s not the biggest problem we have,” Robertson said.

“Right,” Niell agreed. “We still don’t know how she was killed, let alone when, or by whom.”

29

Saturday, November 2 1:45 P.M.

AFTER lunch Saturday, Professor Branden followed a salt truck heading west on Route 39. Near the high school, the truck swung out and around a buggy struggling through the deep snow, and Branden did, too. In the rear of the buggy, four small children in denim coats looked out the back opening of the rig, studying Branden’s car, and waving shyly as he passed. As he came around into his lane, Branden glanced in the rearview mirror and saw stern Amish parents bundled in black wool coats, with a heavy blue blanket pulled up over their knees. The father had on a black felt hat with broad brim and round dome, and the missus wore a black bonnet tied closely against her cheeks.

The professor pulled into the drive of the Favor residence, and the buggy clattered by on the wet pavement behind him. At the front door, the deputy on guard took down the yellow crime scene ribbon, and Branden went inside. Once he had his coat off, he walked slowly through the house. He studied the layout for about twenty minutes and then heard a commotion at the front door. Returning to the foyer, Branden found Henry DiSalvo arguing with the deputy about access to the house. DiSalvo saw Branden and said, “Mike, let me in. The Favor children want some clothes.”

Branden signaled the deputy to admit the lawyer and said to DiSalvo, “You can’t take anything, Henry. You know that.”

“They’ve all taken rooms at the Hotel Millersburg. They don’t have a change of clothes or overnight bags. Thought I could at least pick up a few things for them,” DiSalvo said. He draped his coat over an armchair and followed Branden into the parlor.

“You’re not staying with the Favors?” Branden asked.

“Their New York lawyer is finally here. Landed a Lear jet at the Wayne County airport,” Henry said. “It’s a good thing, too, because I am completely worn out.”

“I wondered how you were holding up, Henry.”

“Criminal law is too much pressure. I like estate practice. Trusts, wills, that type of thing.”

Branden had dealt with DiSalvo a year and a half ago, on an Amish inheritance of several million dollars. And DiSalvo had managed Branden’s trust after his parents had been killed in a car accident involving a buggy when he was a boy.

“Even if it is just trusts and wills, Henry, I imagine the Favor account is enough to keep ten lawyers busy.”

“Oh, I manage. I’ve been working for Juliet Favor since before her husband died,” DiSalvo said, and took a seat on the yellow-flowered divan.

“I suppose you can’t talk about their inheritance,” Branden said, and stood by the cold fireplace. “Is this the rugby trophy Sally threw at her mother?” he asked.

DiSalvo said, “Yes,” and rose. At the mantel, he took the brass figure of men tangled in a scrummage, and turned it around to face the other way. “Guess I put it up backwards,” he remarked.

“How would you know?” Branden asked.

“I’ve got a duplicate in my office.”

“I thought it looked familiar.”

“Harry Favor was captain one year when I was coach. I’d started my practice in Millersburg, and I served as rugby coach at the college for several years.”

“You’ve known the family a long time, Henry.”

“I knew Juliet and Harry when they were just kids. Juliet was a poor Tennessee mountain girl, come to the big college up north. Harry was a senior her freshman year. He fell in love with her the first day he saw her. They were married the day after she graduated.”

“Big romance?”

“Star-crossed lovers, actually. His family was wealthy. Big upper East Coast types. Didn’t approve much of plain Juliet Johnson.”

“That’s ironic.”

“How so?”

“Juliet evidently had the same objection to Martha Lehman.”

“Right,” DiSalvo said, contemplatively. “One forgets one’s roots.”

“Or tries to,” Branden said. “How much are these two kids worth, now?”

“In the neighborhood of 100 million dollars. That’s 100 million each, conservatively. There’s also a trifle, something like eight or nine million, provided for the college.”

Branden shook his head. “Sonny said it was something like that.” Putting a college kid together with that kind of money was something his mind resisted. He wondered, momentarily, how nine million would work out for the college. “Juliet was going to cut them off?” he asked.

“She only threatened to,” DiSalvo said, “and then, only to a certain extent. But you already know that.”

Branden took a seat in an armchair next to the fireplace, and DiSalvo returned to the divan. Branden mused, “That’s a powerful motive for murder, Henry.”

“You’d think so,” Henry said. “But Sally never really cared about money. Just wanted a normal mother to love her. So, they fought all the time.”

“And Sonny?”

“Juliet explained to him last night that she intended to change the will. Sally would get a fourth in cash, Sonny half, and Millersburg College the last fourth, but Sonny would have to jump through hoops to get his. It was the same in the trust his father had left him. The same on three counts, actually—whether he got his trust or inherited through the old or the new will. He just learned about that last night.”

“What kind of hoops?”

“School, MBA, that type of thing. Juliet explained it all to him. Whether through his trust, activated when he reached twenty-one, or through an inheritance whenever Juliet died, Sonny Favor was on the treadmill for the rest of his life.”

“Not Sally too?”

“No, and I don’t know why. Sally just gets her share in a lump sum, one time. Sonny gets the true wealth—companies, holdings, properties, directorships, etc., but he has to toe the line for it. And Juliet laid that all out for him last night.”

“That’s an awful lot of money for a kid like Sonny to handle,” Branden said.

“She knew that. So, she was all set to sell off a dozen companies or so. Simplify the estate for him. He’d keep the simple manufacturing concerns, but high-technology companies like pharmaceuticals and computer chips were set to go.”

“And it’s still worth 100 million to him?”

“That’s just the current valuation. Properly managed, the whole thing could double itself in ten years, even in this market. Juliet knew Sonny would have to measure up to pull that off, but she thought it was a good carrot, so to speak.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Henry?” Branden asked.

“Their new lawyer thought I should,” Henry said. “Wants it known to Sheriff Robertson that neither Sally nor Sonny had a real motive to kill Juliet Favor.”

“I guess not,” Branden said.

Henry DiSalvo excused himself and left, and the fireplace drew the professor’s attention again. He thought of Sonny and Sally at the Hotel Millersburg, working out their futures with their lawyers. Amazing, the amounts involved, he thought. Branden tried to imagine the impact that that amount of money would have. Even for children accustomed to great wealth, to be handed so vast a fortune while still in college would have to be astounding. The pressure, decisions, weight of it all—absolutely astounding.

Branden rose slowly from his chair and faced the fireplace, with his hands behind his back. Heavy snow continued to fall outside, and the room was cold. He retrieved his coat, turned to go, and then abruptly spun back to face the mantel.

In the foyer, he took out his cell phone and called Melissa Taggert. In a few urgent sentences, he explained why he needed a technician with a fingerprint kit, and why he would be sending said technician back to Missy’s labs with a blood sample to test.