See Also Deception (27 page)

Tornado sirens were a common sound in the spring but reasonably rare in the autumn. When the wind was just right we could hear them moan and wail all the way out to the farm. I'd stop and listen, then look at the sky in wonder and sudden fear, especially if the sky was threatening and angry. I hated spending time in the storm cellar. It was like a grave you could walk into and never leave. But the shelter was a necessity out on the plains, and now, in modern times, it was the first place to run to when the Russians dropped the A-bomb. That was a different siren.

I'd seen my fair share of twisters drop to the ground in my life. They danced about willy-nilly like they had a mind of their own, hopping about like they'd just been stung by a bee. The siren had served its purpose, even for us, more than once. Other times, the siren was nothing more than a test, just to make sure it would work when the time came. What I heard, distantly, was like that, like a tornado siren on an unexpected day. A warble heading my way.

I could barely breathe, standing in the Tutweilers' perfect house, staring at Nina hanging there. I was overcome with a deep sadness that I could hardly explain. I didn't know the woman. Not really. But she had meant something to Calla, and she had been kind enough to invite me to her house for tea after a funeral. It felt like I had lost a friend. Her death was sudden, unexpected, too real not to acknowledge, and I stood there with my hands glued to my sides, wishing like heck that I could step outside and smoke a cigarette.

I was fine until I heard a thump overhead. My heart stopped.

The thump was followed by a pitter-patter of little sounds, and I quickly realized that the sound was tiny footsteps, that most likely belonging to a four-legged creature. I assumed that the Tutweilers' owned a cat, and it sounded like it had jumped down from a bed, roused from its afternoon nap. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The siren drew closer and I waited, stood in place right next to the phone, which sat on a wonderfully ornate and highly polished writing desk. I would have liked to admire the interior of the house, with its rich, textured, Bing-cherry-red wallpaper in the formal dining room, the squishy, ornate rugs that most likely had been imported from some far off place like Afghanistan, and the hundreds of books that seemed to have a place in every room of the house, not just the small library past the front door. But it was difficult to be in awe of a highly refined decorating taste when there was a dead woman hanging from the rafters.

In the blink of an eye, a knock came at the door, followed by a familiar, “Hello.”

“In here,” I called out. I still didn't want to move, to leave Nina for a second, even though I was relieved to hear Guy Reinhardt's voice. I had hoped it would be him that answered my call.

The front door creaked open and then slammed behind him as Guy made his way to me. “What have you gone and got yourself into this time, Marjorie?” he said, as he appeared under the arched door that led into the room. “Oh, that's it, then isn't it?”

“Sadly so,” I said.

Guy froze to assess the situation, not taking his eyes off of Nina. I knew he'd seen a dead body before, so it wasn't a matter of being stunned, but he did look surprised.

“I touched her to make sure she was dead,” I said. “Then called the police. I'm glad it's you that's here.”

“Duke's got his hands full with the newspapers and such.”

“I'd imagine he does.” Guy was dressed in his brown and tan uniform, his shirt was heavily starched, with military creases, the one on the left cutting behind his badge—a silver star that looked like it had been hung there with perfect care. He looked put together, not a hair out of place, just like the Tutweilers. Any resentment that he might have held against Duke Parsons for getting the acting-sheriff appointment was nowhere to be seen. Guy wore a police uniform well. It seemed appropriate for him, like it was a comfortable place for him in the world. I was glad of that. I needed some calmness at that moment.

“You shouldn't have touched her, Marjorie,” he said.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

He shrugged, then turned his attention back to Nina. “Nobody else around, I suppose?”

“A cat upstairs, I think. I didn't wander off and go look. No sign of her husband, though, which is a little odd.”

“What're you doin' here, Marjorie?” Guy said, walking to the opposite side of Nina, looking her up and down.

I followed his every movement. “She was a friend of Calla's. I met her at the library, and after the funeral she and her husband asked me to stop by for tea.”

Guy stopped and looked me straight in the eye. “That's a long stretch away from Hank.”

“Doc's gonna release him this evening. I had some time to mourn Calla. He wanted me to.” I was sure my tone narrowed.

“I wasn't pryin', Marjorie. Probably a good thing you stopped by, but I suppose her husband woulda found her when he got home.”

“I assumed he'd be here,” I said.

Guy didn't react, just ran his eyes up from Nina's feet to her head. “Pete'll be here any time. We called for the ambulance. Looks like this time it'll be a real suicide. Still can't believe Herbert Frakes could have done such a thing to Miss Eltmore.”

My eyes had stayed on Nina's feet. Or, more specifically, on her shoes. I was trying to make sense out of something I saw. “I wish you would have told me,” I said.

“Couldn't, Marjorie; you know that.”

“I do.” Everything about Nina was perfect. Everything except her shoes. The heels of her shoes, really. Everything else—the toes, the soles—looked like they'd just come straight out of the box. But the heels were scuffed and marred. “But you had to have a reason to arrest him,” I continued.

Guy stopped his inspection, looked at me over his shoulder. “I suppose I can tell you now, since it's no secret, or isn't gonna be. We found Herbert's watch in his room in the basement. It had blood on it. Same type of blood as Miss Eltmore's, and there was no one that could vouch for his whereabouts. Said he'd been to the Wild Pony and was sleeping one off, if ya know what I mean.”

“He didn't have an alibi? Maybe he got blood on the watch when he found Calla,” I said.

Guy shook his head. “No. He didn't have any blood on him when we got there, and he wasn't wearing the watch. He had no explanation for why there was blood on it. He said he'd misplaced it.”

I nodded. “That's what he told me at Calla's showing. He said he took it off every evening and put it in the same place, but it wasn't there. He was befuddled.”

“He said that to you?”

“Why would I tell you otherwise?” I broke my gaze away from Nina's shoes to glare at Guy. He was starting to annoy me. Or something was. I looked back at Nina's shoes. “Why do you suppose her shoes are scuffed on the heels?”

“I don't know.” Guy said. He looked at Nina, then at her shoes, then back at me. “Why would you ask that, Marjorie?”

“Seems out of place to me. I've been trying to think of a way I could scuff up the heels of my brand new shoes if I had them. I suppose if I rubbed them up against something long enough that would make a mark. Maybe even a mark on both shoes. But those shoes have no wear on them, just like everything else on . . .” I paused, connected her shoes to another piece of Nina's pattern: The broken windshield and dent on the Cadillac. Something had happened there, and it hadn't looked like it had been something Nina or Claude had done, but something someone had done to them. Like run into them—or smashed up their car on purpose.

Guy looked at me curiously. “What?”

“What if she was dragged here from somewhere, Guy? What if someone moved her?”

“You mean to make this look like a suicide just like Herbert made Miss Eltmore's death look like?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying, Guy. Maybe this isn't a suicide any more than Calla's was. Maybe we just think we know what we're looking at, just like that's what you were supposed to think with Calla.”

“Then that might mean that Herbert didn't do it.”

“Could be,” I said, “but this time, someone was in a hurry and they overlooked her shoes.” I took a deep breath and didn't take another second to consider the implication of the idea that Herbert could be innocent. That wouldn't have surprised me in the least. “I think you better talk to Claude Tutweiler as soon as you can, Guy,” I said, moving my doubt from one man to another. “He might know more about the deaths of both of these women than he should . . .”

CHAPTER 45

I think we both expected the next person to walk through the front door to be Pete McClandon, the coroner, but it wasn't. Claude Tutweiler burst through the front door in a rush, a panicked look on his face, his overcoat soaked to the seams, and his once perfect hair an unexpected mess. He was pale, almost gaunt with fear, a far cry from the man I had sized up at the funeral.

“Where is she?” Claude demanded, coming to a stop as soon as he saw her, answering his own question. “Oh, dear God. It's come to this.” He collapsed to his knees like he had been hit in the back of the head with an invisible baseball bat. A wail of grief so deep, so hurt, emitted from his mouth. The heartbreaking sound was distorted. His face was pressed hard against the Afghani carpet as he beat it with his fists. Thunder clapped overhead at the same time, so that it was difficult to tell the two sounds apart.

I was taken aback by Claude's entrance and show of emotion. I felt bad for questioning whether it was all an act. My mind had already created a suspect index for Nina's death, and there was only one entry on it: Claude Tutweiler. It was no index, and, witnessing Claude's obvious pain, I felt guilty for even thinking such a thing.

“Sir,” Guy said, making his way to Claude. He put his hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you should come in and sit down. Get ahold of yourself. The ambulance is on the way.”

“She's dead?” Claude said, looking up at Guy with tear-filled eyes.

Guy nodded. “Yes, I'm sorry to say.”

“Damn it.” Claude pounded his fists again. “It didn't have to be this way.” He looked at me then, and said, “I'm sorry you had to see this. I was only going to be gone an hour or so. I should never have left.” He did nothing to stop the tears from dripping onto the ground.

I was speechless, which was a rarity. I didn't know what to say. Instead, I shrugged, opened my purse, pulled out my handkerchief, and offered it to Claude.

“Dear God.” He took the white cotton square and dabbed his eyes, then sighed heavily.

I was about to close my purse, when I saw the letter I had taken from Calla's desk. There hadn't been time to tell Guy about it, nor had there been any time to consider what all of it meant, if anything. Now wasn't the time, so I closed my purse.

We sat in the parlor, just out of view of Nina's body. Pete McClandon had arrived and was doing his coroner's job, whatever that entailed. He was waiting on Duke Parsons to show up before making any changes to the dining room or removing Nina from the house. Guy had told Pete about the marks on the shoes, about our suspicions.

“I dropped Nina off after we left the funeral home,” Claude said. “I had some papers at the office that needed some urgent attention. I was in a hurry. I didn't even come in the house.” He was sitting in a double-arched settee that looked like it had been made in the last century. Probably French. The upholstery was yellow, and it looked like it had never been sat in.

I sat opposite Claude in a smoking chair. A clean ashtray sat next to it on a glass stand, with a calabash pipe and leather pouch of tobacco waiting to be enjoyed. Claude didn't look interested in pleasure at the moment. He was distraught. Exactly as he should have been.

Guy stood at the door, a few feet from Claude, blocking the view into the rest of the house, with an occasional glance over his shoulder.

“Did anyone see you drop Nina off?” Guy said, ignoring my presence in the room.

“I beg your pardon,” Claude answered. He suddenly looked like the college professor that I knew him to be. “Why would I be concerned about such a thing?”

“It's just a question. I'm just curious if you can account for your time after you left the funeral home until you came home.”

Claude's jaw tightened, and he shifted uncomfortably on the settee. “My wife just committed suicide, Officer. Don't you have a sense of decency? Is there a note? Did she leave anything behind? I have questions. I shouldn't be answering questions.”

He looked at me, and I tried not to show any emotion at all. There had been no note that I had seen. But I hadn't looked for one, either. Honestly, I hoped there was one, that it would explain everything. I really hoped Nina Tutweiler had killed herself. What an awful thing to think.

“The investigators still have their work to do,” Guy said.