A commission on murder, p.5
A Commission on Murder, page 5
part #2 of Eastern Shore Mystery Series
It was Sunday, so no school, but Banks knew better than to point it out. He’d done what he’d done, and he was getting tired of apologizing for it.
As they reached the front porch of the inn, McNamara said, “She never said anything about needing her attorney for representation?”
“Representation? No. She said she was calling him to crucify me for harassment.”
“Well, okay, then.” McNamara rang the doorbell. “If you say anything other than ‘hello’ or ‘I apologize,’ you’re fired. Understand?”
A man to follow the rules when left with no other options, Banks gave a short salute and kept his mouth shut.
Jason Carter opened the front door of the inn as if he owned it. A slender man, he nonetheless managed to fill the doorway with entitlement and righteous indignation.
McNamara smiled and extended his hand as he introduced himself.
“This the guy who threatened my wife with a gun?” Carter pointed to Banks, who clinched his fists but stayed silent.
Pulling his hand back, McNamara said, “An unfortunate incident. Corporal Banks is here to apologize to your wife, and I’m here to talk with you both about another matter if you have a moment.” McNamara saw Niki appear behind Carter. He called good morning to her and got a wave before she turned and disappeared down the hall. To the Carters, he said, “I won’t take much of your time. I’d like to get your take on Mr. Bishop’s frame of mind before he left here last Friday.”
The Senator hadn’t taken his eyes off of Banks. “That ticket going away?”
“Already done,” McNamara said.
Carter stepped back, allowing them entrance, but his scowl remained firm.
After what Banks intended to be a subtle once-over to determine that the senator wasn’t armed, he turned his attention to slipping away from his boss and the Carters. His on-again, off-again romance with Niki Malvern was on at the moment, and he could use a sympathetic ear and other comforts. He was poised to disappear through the den and circle around to the kitchen, when Niki appeared with a tray laden with coffee and lemon scones and blocked his getaway.
As the food was being set out, McNamara turned to Banks. “Corporal, you have something to say to the Carters?”
Banks managed a strangled apology that sounded about as sincere as a used car sales pitch.
The Carters settled on the living room sofa, separated from police officers by a low coffee table and miles of attitude. Niki disappeared again, and Banks sat on the chair nearest the door. His only job now was to try to appear interested while the Chief did his thing. Banks knew from experience McNamara could sweet talk a lizard, but he thought the Carter woman could make him work for his money. Maybe this would be the day he would see the Chief stumble. With that possibility to look forward to, he took out his notebook and began to scribble.
The Carters helped themselves to the coffee and a scone each and ignored the officers. Sandra Carter had acknowledged Banks’ apology with a queenly nod but didn’t offer to call off the crucifying attorney. To complicate matters, a faint aroma of alcohol wafted from the couple. It might be coming from both of them, but McNamara’s money was on the wife. She restlessly picked at a scarf around her neck. The colorful bird pattern against a yellow background looked like something an elderly woman would wear, but probably cost more than his car payment.
McNamara asked a few questions about the Carters’ search for a vacation home in the area. Jason Carter seemed to relax a bit as his wife sniped about the scarce inventory of homes. “At least with the farm, we could renovate the house and have what we wanted. Subdividing and selling off the other lots could bring the net cost down into our range. We’d have a deep-water property at an inland price. Great views and practically no mortgage at all.”
Sandra Carter managed her speech without slurring a word. McNamara gave her husband new consideration. Maybe it was the Senator who’d had alcohol with his breakfast. Not too surprising. They were on a vacation of sorts and had been through a rough couple of days. He nodded as if impressed with their plan. “I understand Anton Norse won the bidding?”
“Won! There was never a contest, don’t you see?” Jason Carter leaned forward, his face earnest with what was obviously a passionate opinion. “Bishop could have bought us all if he’d had a mind to. We were here for his entertainment; I’m convinced of it. The ‘winner,’ as you put it, would have been whoever Bishop said the winner was. Norse strutted around like he would take the prize, but I don’t see how.”
“Then why were you here?” McNamara asked.
With a glance at his wife, Carter said, “Sandra wants a vacation home. I want a private place to hunt. We are genuinely in the market to buy, but Bishop and Norse would have to back out for us to win a property like this. So, to answer your question, sir, we came here to help Connie Delaney bilk a billionaire.”
Chapter Eight
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Jason! They aren’t voters, so you don’t have to exaggerate. Garrett Bishop has a lot of money, but it’s millions, not billions.” Sandra Carter put her nibbled scone back on the plate and said, “Chief McNamara, is it? My husband doesn’t like to admit we don’t have the kind of money to compete with Garrett and Anton Norse.”
“You knew going in you would lose the bidding?” McNamara asked.
“Certainly,” Sandra said. Her husband’s face said this was news to him. A deep flush spread up his neck. “We’ve been looking for the right place over here for a long time, and Connie and I have been friends for years. Sorority sisters at Hudson back in the day. We’ve been through a lot of agents without any success, so I was thrilled when Connie got her license and could help us. When she asked if we’d come participate in the bidding, I said sure. Why not? A nice weekend and a chance - not a good one, but a chance - at a great deal.”
“I thought we’d be dealing with an older attorney, that fellow, Kastner,” Jason Carter said. “The firm’s website says he’s the broker. Then I get here and it’s only Connie and some woman who claims she’s an attorney. To make a bad situation worse, the other two bidders, forgive the bluntness, but it’s true, they’re strutting jerks. We were all stuck here in this small inn and it was really uncomfortable.”
McNamara scribbled a bit more and then said, “If I could ask a few questions about Mr. Bishop? What was the first impression you had of him?”
The senator struck a contemplative pose as if preparing to deliver a stump speech. McNamara thought he’d practiced the move in a mirror.
“In my opinion,” Carter said, “Bishop didn’t know what the hell he was doing. You can’t always tell a man’s worth by his appearance, but Bishop looked more like a street artist - sorry, dear - than a successful entrepreneur.”
Carter’s apology to his artist wife sounded as if it was a frequent exchange. Apparently used to the disparagement of her fellow creatives, Sandra Carter ignored him. “He wore bad shoes,” she said as if that settled the issue.
Her husband needed no encouragement to continue. “Garrett Bishop was all over the place. One minute saying he had to buy a boat and jet ski, the next out power walking - when was the last time you heard that phrase? And he talked non-stop about wanting to consume the area.” Carter waved his long, slender hands in dismissal. “Said he’d done Nantucket and the Hamptons and anything further south was bourgeoisie.”
McNamara thought Carter enjoyed using Bishop’s pretentiousness to emphasize his own social standing. “I’m sure that statement would be a surprise to a lot of folks,” he said.
“Jase is right. Bishop was awful. Such a fake,” Sandra said. “He kept talking about tearing down the old house and building a compound on the Wye River side of the property. Said he would have a perpetual party - people could come and go as the mood struck them.”
“Who was he going to invite?” Banks’ voice caused both Carters to snap out of the conversation and glare at him. McNamara’s look reminded him he would be fired as soon as they were alone. He made a show of concentrating on the notes he was supposed to be taking. So far he’d only jotted down every swear word he knew and ‘blah, blah, blah.’
“I was told Bishop designed gaming software,” McNamara said, refocusing on the Carters who reluctantly turned back to him, although their cooperative mood had vanished.
Sandra shrugged, which seemed to be her go-to pose. The scarf around her neck looked like crumpled tissue paper from her continuous pulling and twisting.
Her husband said, “So what?”
McNamara said, “Building a compound for a perpetual house party sounds at odds with what I’ve read about Mr. Bishop.” When neither Carter responded, he added, “What I mean is, when he wasn’t working, he was a daredevil prone to disappearing acts. I don’t see him as a party kind of guy.”
“I saw him as a fool,” Jason said.
“A silly man without an ounce of originality,” Sandra added.
Here the senator gave an unrefined snort. “Silly? Bishop didn’t need to be original. He could have bought and sold us a dozen times over. He’d have outbid us for sure if he hadn’t been killed by a stray bullet from a hunter’s rifle.”
“Is that what happened?” McNamara asked.
“Isn’t it? I heard it on the news.”
McNamara didn’t respond. Jason Carter looked thoughtful, but his wife had gone pale.
Banks decided if he was already fired, he might as well say what he wanted. “Why did you stay for the bidding after you learned who you were up against and knew you couldn’t possibly win?”
He got another round of glares, but Jason answered the question. “Because Anton Norse is also in the running. I thought the two money guys might get into a wrangle, get mad, and walk away. I wanted to be here to grab up the property in the unlikely event that happened.”
Sandra quickly agreed. Her color was returning and she seemed anxious to explain. “I love coming to little Niki’s place. Connie and I always shop and have fun, and this time I might wind up with the house of my dreams, so why not?”
Senator Carter made a sour face.
Banks made a note that Carter’s wife embarrassed him with her bourgeoisie behavior. He made sure to use quotes around the big word. He also noted she’d left her husband out of her explanation.
“What was your opinion of Mr. Norse?” McNamara asked.
The senator’s face closed up, smooth neutrality sliding into place. His wife just shook her head.
“Nothing?” McNamara asked. “You must have some impressions. Anything would be helpful.”
“He’s arrogant and hateful,” Sandra said. “As soon as Connie told him what was going on, that we were all bidding, he got nasty. Really impossible to be around. We were so glad when he left.”
“He’s gone?”
“Not entirely. We wouldn’t get that lucky.” Sandra lowered her voice. “Poor, dear Connie was so embarrassed. Norse said he wouldn’t stay here, at Niki’s inn. He insisted on moving to the Inn at Perry Cabin over in St. Michaels.”
“Is that where he is now?” McNamara asked. “In St. Michaels?”
“How would we know?” Her husband’s hostile attitude was back. “We’re still here. I wanted to go, as well.”
“Why didn’t you move to Perry Cabin?”
“Because this is a lovely place!” Sandra said, then added, “And as I said, Connie and I are long-time friends.”
“That’s right,” her husband broke in. “Your good friend set us up as window dressing for the real buyers. She knew she was wasting our time.”
“Stop it!” The hiss in his wife’s tone drew the senator up short. “Connie is one of my oldest friends. We are in her daughter’s house. Stop acting like an ass.”
Banks found himself sitting up a little straighter, the mind-numbing boredom gone. Jason Carter was an ass. An ass with a short fuse who’d been embarrassed by Connie Delaney and Anton Norse. But it was the pretentious multi-millionaire Garrett Bishop who’d infuriated the Senator. Banks looked over to see if McNamara had made the same connection.
The Chief of Police was smiling. “You pulled out of the bidding, I understand,” McNamara said.
“Certainly,” Carter nodded.
“Oh, please,” Sandra Carter said.
Banks reminded himself there were worse things than being single. Such as never having the last word, for instance.
But Sandra wasn’t done. “My husband, the big hunter, decided the woodland acres were perfect for his needs. And I could have a waterfront house once we subdivided the farm. But Bishop getting shot brought up some unpleasant memories, didn’t it, dear?”
The look Carter gave his wife got both police officers’ attention, but it was quickly replaced by a wry smile. “Sandra doesn’t think much of my shooting skills, gentlemen. There was an incident a few years ago —”
“An embarrassing incident,” Sandra added.
“Yes, it was,” her husband agreed. “You may have heard about it? I was hunting and hit the wrong target.”
“You shot a cow, I believe,” McNamara said.
“You did some research. Guess that’s to be expected. I did, indeed, shoot a cow. Thank God it was the week after the election. The farmer wrote ‘COW’ on the sides of his animals in orange paint and let the press have a photo shoot. Not the same as Dick Cheney shooting his hunting partner, but bad enough.”
Carter’s self-deprecating tone lightened the mood until his wife cut through the chuckles saying, “Who wants to live so close to an active hunting area? Any fool could kill you while you’re minding your own business. We might look for something a little less remote now. If we don’t get the farm, that is.”
“You told the MSP detectives you both were in the area when Bishop was shot,” McNamara said.
“That’s true,” Jason said. “I wanted to walk through the woods. Get a feel for the land.”
“And you, Mrs. Carter? Why were you there?”
“Jase promised me he wouldn’t stay long, and then we could shop in St. Michaels and have lunch at the new restaurant on Talbot Street. I didn’t want to walk around that smelly old house again, and thank goodness I didn’t. Just thinking we were near the shooting has given me nightmares.”
“Where were you exactly when Bishop was shot?” Banks asked.
The Carters glared at him, but Banks noticed the Chief was waiting for their answer. Maybe he wouldn’t get fired today.
“I was in my husband’s tank of a car reading a magazine,” Sandra said. “He parked in some deserted pull-off area in the woods about, oh, a quarter mile from the farm. That tiresome woman with the state police kept at us until we’d pinned down all these details. Why don’t you talk to her? I was waiting for Deadeye over there,” she waved at her husband. “He can probably drag you through the woods and show you where he was when he heard the shot.”
“I doubt I could find the exact spot,” Jason said. “But I did hear the shot. I’d already started back to Sandy, and I speeded up when I realized I hadn’t put my reflective vest on. I exited the woods over near Wales Point and walked on the roadside. Took longer, but safer than blundering around in the woods, right? A couple of trucks passed me, and the police found one of the drivers who backed me up, so I’m in the clear.”
Sandra Carter stood and smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her skirt. “Yes, dear, we know. You may have shot a cow, but you didn’t shoot the rich guy. Your re-election campaign is safe. Officers, I have plans for the afternoon. If you’ve finished?”
Banks didn’t get to see Niki before he left, but then he didn’t look for her either. After the Carters, he needed to be alone.
The ride back to the office was quiet. While Banks pondered the wisdom of commitment on any level, McNamara struggled with the uncomfortable knowledge he’d overstepped jurisdictional boundaries. Beyond trying to get his bone-headed deputy out of trouble, he’d had no reason to talk to the Carters. The Bishop shooting hadn’t happened in Mallard Bay. The MSP had thoroughly covered the Carters’ stories and were no doubt checking their alibis. They had thrown him a bone by asking him to interview Grace the day before, and while he liked to think his personal connection to her had helped produce some good background for the investigation, that was all it was. And he hadn’t been asked to do anything more.
For the first time in years, McNamara regretted leaving the MSP. He was relegated to the sidelines - not in the game, but still itching to find the shooter who was too damn close to Mallard Bay to be ignored. He was a reasonable man, a rule follower. He didn’t buck the system — he found a way to work within it. This was a State Police investigation. If he wasn’t going to stay in his own lane, he would have to be careful.
Chapter Nine
The shock of Bishop’s violent death and the momentary spotlight on Mallard Bay threw everyone’s life off-center. Departing Waterfowl Festival attendees were replaced by news vans and reporters. The country lane leading to the murder site became a mud pit clogged with traffic. By Tuesday, the media was mostly gone, but the tourist count was still up. Local business owners tried hard to maintain their ‘we’re all devastated by this shocking crime’ demeanor while they rang up sales.
For the people at the center of the investigation, life changed in a different way. Being interviewed by the police was not as exciting as showing a cable news team the table where Garrett Bishop had sucked down his last round of Bloody Marys on the morning he was shot. Eventually, the hoopla died down. The Carters returned to Virginia, and Anton Norse departed for California. All three of them were at the end of a long leash held by the Maryland State Police.
The days after the shooting passed in a blur for Grace, thanks to the MSP, Cyrus, Avril, and Leo, all of whom demanded her time, information and attention. By Wednesday, she was more than ready for a diversion even if the only option was New Recipe Night with Niki.
Not content with being a good cook, Niki had aspirations of being a chef and was continuously trying out difficult recipes. Declaring herself to be a visual learner, she bypassed her bookcase full of cookbooks and used videos on YouTube for instructions. Having watched Niki in the throes of a video-led cooking session, Grace knew the real reason her hyperactive cousin liked the videos. A half-hour prep time could take all day as Niki took calls, texts and emails in between chopping, blending and baking. And then there was downtime with Candy Crush.
